Short Change Heroes
by sphinx81
Summary: Fem!Connor/AU. Thomas Hickey was a lot of unsavory things, not that he ever gave a damn. But there were few lines he would not cross, including when Charles "gifted" him with the exhausting little assassin during their stay in Bridewell. Yet after he escaped her wrath at the gallows, he found their paths crossing more often than not. And that's when life finally got interesting...
1. Bridewell Prison

**Summary: **Thomas Hickey was a lot of unsavory things, not that he ever gave a damn; a drunk, a thief, a smuggler, an opportunist, a murderer, a whoring lout, to say the least. His services sold to the highest bidder, there was little he remained loyal to. But there were few lines he would not cross. Including when Charles "gifted" him with the exhausting little assassin during their stay in Bridewell.

Somehow, Hickey escaped Fem!Connor at the gallows and failed at killing Washington. Considering his extensive time in jail at Haytham's hands and Charles' increasingly unstable penchant for putting his personal vendettas first, Hickey started making himself scarce around his Templar brethren.

To add insult to injury, he swiftly found his path constantly crossing with the infernally stubborn assassin's. Their goals in alignment more often than not, they acknowledged there was little gain in initially killing each other. And as loath as he was to admit it, a begrudging respect for Fem!Connor started to send him questioning his own truths. Yet, how long until Thomas found himself at the end end of the assassin's blade? Or until he ended her life the sake of his own personal gain?

**Warning: Adult language, images, fisticuffs, threats of serious harm and non-con.**

_I can't see where you comin' from,  
But I know just what you runnin' from:  
And what matters ain't the "who's baddest," but  
The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby._

_-Short Change Hero,_ The Heavy

**Mid-June, 1776**

The last time someone held a blade to Thomas' family jewels, it was through no fault of his own. The tasty little poppet smiling up at him from where she lay naked in bed had failed to disclose that she was married. Or that her husband was back in town and on leave from the local militia. No matter, as cold-cocking said cuckhold in the face gave him ample time to go crashing through the window and tear off out of the backyard. If he had to grade himself on the execution of his getaway, he'd determine it was a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. Yeah, it didn't employ much in the way of finesse. Nevertheless, he had to give himself a couple of pats on the back for sheer style.

But that was few months ago. Just now, he tried the same trick with the Assassin. Because as far as he was concerned, it was pretty fucking rude to let the little git manhandle him up against the wall of the building they'd found themselves next to. Especially after such a bloody long chase through the streets of New York.

_Apparently, me skills need a bit 'o polishin',_ he distantly mused, _Or me age is catchin' up with me._ Having 37 years to you didn't exactly make anyone a spring chicken. Not to mention, his pride had taken a bit of a bruising as well. The stupid blighter was wet behind the ears and likely still proverbially sucking on his mama's teats. Yet he still managed to tackle him to the ground in the middle of the god-damned street. All despite his best efforts to distract the crowds by tossing out counterfeit money in his wake.

For fuck's sake, didn't Haytham swear up and down that the boy's laughable ilk were all dead and gone?

"Be still. You will do no more harm."

Thomas froze at the feel of cold steel against his inner thigh as he reeled back for the punch. Well, that and the fact that the self-righteous little voice proved on the high side. Then there was also the rather glaring detail that he could feel the fetching curve of her tits beneath her clothes. Mostly due to her being pressed all up against him as she securely balled her other fist into his collar.

Peering closer and really paying attention now, he arched a surprised brow. Well fancy that, it was apparently a _woman_ beneath the white hood. She was on the tall side, the top of her head reaching above his shoulder. Her layers of clothes also hid most of her curve. Combined with her bristling with a menagerie of weapons, it was no surprise that he'd initially mistaken her for a smaller man. Yet she proved quite the comely bit 'o fresh morsel. At least judging by the flash of her dark eyes and the charming spray of freckles across her button nose and chiseled cheeks. She bore a nice 'lil mouth on her too, in spite of its current sneer. Her deeply tanned skin strikingly unusual, it didn't detract from her lovely visage. Nope, not in the slightest.

Without warning, her countenance stirred some distant, uncanny recollection in him. As though he'd seen her before, though that had to be impossible. There's no way he'd forget a face like that…unless he was utterly shit-faced at the time? He was admittedly distracted by the way her blade kept shifting upwards and _way_ too fucking close to his balls. So his biggest concerns at present boiled down to two key things:

1.) Her knife threatening to castrate him. Really, it wasn't fucking funny anymore, how close it was to his cock. Just, _no._  
2.) Getting her to shut the fuck up as she kept yammering on and on about that tosser, Washington. How could this little chit be so bloody naïve?

It certainly didn't help when he spotted over her shoulders an approaching patrol of soldiers sizing them up. To add insult to injury, they looked to be carrying his bag of counterfeit money. Great, now that could be pretty fucking incriminating.

Trying to shove her away only earned him her even tighter grip on his collar. She was damn near about to choke him out if she pulled it any harder…and now, here were the soldiers. Bloody fucking hell.

Of course, the silly nitwit tried to talk them out arresting her. Jesus Christ, she should've just shut the hell up and let him grease their palms a bit. No harm, no foul and they could both be on their merry way. She, back to whatever rock she crawled out from under. He, off to lay low for a bit and let Haytham know that there was likely going to be a change in plans when it came to sliding in Lee to command the Continentals.

They must have been just as fed up with her prattle as he was, for one of them knocked her out with the butt of their rifle. As loath as he was to admit it, Hickey couldn't bite back a wince as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed to the cobblestones. That was certainly going to leave a mark. And one hell of a headache.

"Serves her right, yeah?" he attempted to garner the soldiers' camaraderie. "Bloody lil tosser should know 'er place, eh?"

Regrettably, that didn't go over as well as he hoped, judging by their sneers. "You want some more of where that came from?" one of them snarled, smacking him across the back of head as he led them away. Thankfully, it was with his hand rather than the same treatment he'd doled out to the assassin. "No?" he jeered, "Then I suggest you shut it!" Gritting his teeth, Hickey shot the soldier a murderous glare. Left with no room for escape at the moment, he found himself being marched to Bridewell Prison.

Lee had better have a solution for this little muck-up, that was for damn sure.

* * *

Hickey wasn't particularly surprised when the key jangled in the lock of his cell. Lying in bed (a real one, too. With an actual stuffed mattress, a couple of pillows and a heavily knit blanket. It was a fuck-ton better than the disgusting straw mattress that passed for one in the cell he they'd tossed him into before his little upgrade) and staring up at the boring array of stones in the ceiling for a moment, he leapt to his feet as the door creaked open.

However, the sight that met him caused his gleeful expression of victory to fall from his face.

"Good, you're awake," Charles sniffed, scurrying into the cell. "I've a gift for you, Hickey."

"Unless it's me walkin' papers, I ain't interested!" he snapped. "Wot's with all this funny business 'bout gettin' me out?! I been in 'ere for damn near a fortnight!"

"Patience!" Charles chastised, "Haytham is employing all options at his disposal to release you. In the meantime, this should serve you well." With little care, he tossed a blanket-covered, body-sized bundle onto the bed. "Do with the little bitch what you wish," he dismissively waved.

"Wot's this 'en?" Hickey shot Charles a suspicious look. Lee only shrugged before inspecting his nails for a bit.

In one, fluid motion, Hickey yanked the blanket from around his apparent sacrifice. It revealed the knocked out, dusky-skinned wildcat who led to his arrest. She was bound hand and foot, her hair loosened of its braid. In a thin, filthy tunic that did little to hide her bodice beneath it and torn trousers, she appeared every inch the prisoner. He black eye, swollen cheek and corner of her mouth, the mottle of bruises along her forearms and her thinner figure added to the effect.

For some reason that he had no desire to address aloud, Hickey's stomach lurched at the sight of her.

Sure, she was a bloody assassin who'd killed a shit-ton of his allies. And she was better off dead instead of constantly fucking up their plans. But this? This was bordering a bit on the side of ridiculous. Not to mention, a god-damned waste of time. Better for a clean kill then whatever revenge-driven madness Charles was plotting. Put the girl out of her misery once and for all is how he saw it. Then again, that'd always been Lee's shortcoming; his plans were way too damn complicated, so it was inevitable that he constantly allowed the most minor of setbacks to affect him far too personally. In all honesty, his sheer arrogance was getting to be a problem.

Thomas was glad he didn't have some knob-headed, blind allegiance to the Templars' ridiculous creed. A nice tidy little fortune for his efforts was plenty enough to keep him going. Well, at least for now.

"What in the hell would I want to do with that?" he pointed accusingly at her on the bed.

Walking towards the door, Charles was stopped by Hickey's heavy hand on his shoulder. Spinning about on his heel, he gave a dark chuckle at the other man's confused expression. "What?" he sing-songed, "I can't imagine how hard it is for you to think straight when you haven't had your cock properly serviced in the last fortnight or so, eh?"

Thomas had never liked Haytham's creepy little lap dog. Especially not with the way the other man's icy blue eyes lewdly trailed down to his crotch at the moment. Not that he wasn't the equal opportunity sort when it came to his own bedmates. Before he went and got himself killed, Johnson had certainly enjoyed his attentions, to say the least. But Charles' constant expressions of lustful adoration for the Grandmaster always left a nasty taste in his mouth. Perhaps like Kenway did in Charles'?

He snickered at that. His mind easily drummed up the image of the grandmaster sitting back in that big, comfy, leather chair of his in his office. Charles would gladly be on his knees, like one of his bloody Pomeranians, begging to suck him off. Of course, Haytham would last for a while, dismissive and bored, as always. Maybe he liked tying up the little lapdog and having him watch in frustration as he jerked himself off. Or fucked one of the tavern wenches from the Green Dragon, her buxom body bent over his office desk. Oh, Charles would be so deliciously frustrated. Likely whining and crying for release like the little lickspittle he was.

Thomas didn't realize he was actually laughing out loud until Charles smacked him across the shoulder. "Shut-up, you imbecile!" he hissed, nodding towards the door. "I had to bribe the guards a hefty bit of coin to look the other way as I brought the savage to you. I shouldn't even be here in the first place!"

"Well 'en," Thomas gave him a mocking bow with a flourish of his hand, "By you leave, m'lord?"

Rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth, Charles stomped out of the cell. As he closed it, pulling on the door to ensure it was locked, he snapped out, "Frankly, it's a waste of perfectly good funds that we're getting you released."

"Apparently, the boss-man don't think that," Thomas smirked with a feral flash of his teeth.

"Ass!" Charles muttered, gesturing for the guard at the top of stairs to lead him out.

Hearing the retreating steps, Thomas crossed his cell and took a seat on his bed, next to his apparent target. She didn't stir. Not even when he slapped her cheek a couple of times to wake her up. Shrugging, he picked her up and unceremoniously dropped her on the floor, next to the bed. She was lucky that there were fresh rushes spread across it. No doubt, it was miles cleaner than the shit hole they had her locked up in. Pulling the blanket up over himself, he soon drifted off to sleep.

Seriously, why in the fuck did Charles have to be such a god-damned inconvenience?

* * *

She was still asleep when Hickey awoke the next morning. But she'd moved in the night, curling herself up against the wall. Her feet were still bound, as were her hands in front of her.

Judging by how the guard didn't say a word as he pushed in his breakfast through the steel grate in the middle of the door, Thomas figured Haytham's pockets must have run nice and deep for this level of bribery. From what he heard when they let him out for his daily hours in the prison yard (outside and away from the general, broke-ass prison population, of course), there had been no word of a prisoner escape. Meaning the guards _knew_ that she wasn't in her cell.

How fucked up was that?

In fact, he was so focused on the fact that Charles expected him to use her for a bit of fun that he missed that she still wasn't on the floor when he returned that afternoon. It was his first mistake.

As soon as the door to his cell clicked closed behind him, his knee was kicked out from behind him. In the next split second, something wild and clawing then landed on his back, effectively knocking the air out of him. Within the blink of an eye, she boxed him twice the kidney. Nearly throwing up his supper at the blaze of agony that ricocheted up his side, he sluggishly crawled back to his knees, his fingers blindly clambering for purchase along the floor. Unfortunately for him, she briskly followed up her initial attack with a driving punch to the back of his neck.

As he once again hit the floor like a bag of bricks, a distant part of his mind had to give her some credit at her speed and efficiency. However, he was currently far more concerned with the rope that suddenly appeared in front his eyes. Instinctively throwing up a hand to protect his neck, he could do nothing else to stop her as she yanked it around his throat with vicious aplomb. Now, she was effectively strangling him.

Breath seizing and lungs on fire, his vision was already beginning to darken around the edges. If he didn't do something quick, he was going to be dead in the matter of a few minutes. Probably sooner, judging by how she suddenly clutched his torso between her thighs and settled all her weight on his lower back. As his head jerked backwards, he knew all she needed was a little more force to allow her to cleanly snap his neck.

What a clever fucking cunt.

Without warning, he suddenly went limp. While it didn't allow him to completely surprise her, it gave him the precious seconds he needed to slide his hand even further under her makeshift garrote. Ignoring the rope burn tearing into his hand, he rocked forward. At the same time, snapping his hips upwards threw her off balance. At least the rope was slightly looser now, allowing him to suck in a few desperately needed gulps of air. But her well-aimed hit to the back of his _other_ knee sent him sprawling again. She must have connected with a nerve of some sort, as his thigh spasmed its own volition. His irate grunt echoing off the walls of his cell did nothing to slow how she wrapped both the edges of the rope around one of her hands.

At the same time, she bounced the side of his head off the floor with her other one. Light exploded in front of his eyes at the impact, making him roar out a curse of retort. Hands scrambling back, he viciously raked his nails down her arm. While he could feel himself drawing blood, she simply smacked his hand away while rocking back her weight again.

Holy shit, this bitch was _serious._

Eyes desperately searching for anything to use to his advantage, he let out a gurgle of triumph as he spotted a loosened tile next to his nose. Grabbing at it, he yanked it from the floor. Reeling back, he smashed it into her thigh. While she groaned and seized when it shattered on impact, it didn't cause her to drop the rope. But it was enough to force her to loosen a bit of slack while giving him the leverage he needed to struggle to his knees. He expected her to release him, what, with her equilibrium finally thrown off. But all she did was firmly wrap her legs around his waist and lock her feet together. Great, now he had the crazed savage on his back yet again. And she still had the bloody rope secured around his god-damned neck.

Enough of _this_ bullshit.

Eyes darting around to get his bearings as he stumbled to his feet, he flailed backwards and hit the wall. Her snarled grunt of pain rang in his hears as her back connected with the stone. An idea swiftly forming in his head and realizing he likely had just under four stone of weight on her, he reared back and propelled her into the wall again. This time, with brutal intent and throwing his full weight into it. He was rewarded with her louder yowl and the feel of her feet loosening from around his waist. Pitching forward, he ran backwards yet again. The third time was the charm as the breath was knocked out of her with a bellow of frustration, her grip on the rope finally faltering. Snatching it from around his throat, he hurled it to ground and doubled over. Shaking and gasping for breath as she slid to the ground behind him, he was forced to focus on not passing out.

That was his second mistake.

_Did that bloody savage just launch 'erself off the fuckin' wall?!_ his mind reeled as she inexplicably appeared in front of him, letting out an eerily wolfish growl and shoving her shoulder into his chest. It was made even worse when her punch connected with his mouth, effectively splitting his lip. A little higher and she would've solidly broken his nose. Only luck allowed him to reach out and snatch her by the hair. But yanking her head back did nothing stop her hands from popping up through his arms and aiming a punch or two at his throat. Hell, she didn't even shriek at the pain he know he was causing at almost tearing her hair out at the root.

Thank God he was a soldier, as a civilian would've contained laughably poor reflexes. Likely, he'd be currently choking to death in a vain attempt to get air through his newly crushed trachea. But he was used to attacks from his time in the field. So he jerked his head just to left, causing her first punch to land on his clavicle, the second on his cheek. Gritting out a litany of curses at he felt his face already beginning to swell up, he reached out and smacked her across the face.

She ducked roughly halfway of his reach, though her nose was bloodied, her teeth clattering at the impact so hard she bit down on her lip and drew blood. Yet it allowed him to snap his other arm around her neck and grind it down against her throat. Unfortunately, it still didn't stop her next attack. In fact, she reared back to head-butt him. Only his height saved him, as well as the way he yanked on her hair again, wrenching her neck backward and causing her to let out a hiss of agony.

She was still a whirling fury of spinning limbs. Changing tactics a third time, she kicked at the floor in an effort to get some momentum going. It wasn't hard to tell that she was attempting to use his superior weight against him. Likely, in order to smash him back into the floor and finish off the job of throttling him to death. Frankly, he was a bit stunned that she wasn't screaming and panicked. Outside of a swift babble of what he assumed were curses in her native language, she was silent. Doubtless, she wholly focused on killing him, the murderous little savage.

The chit had more balls than most men he knew, he had to begrudgingly give her that. But her game was getting old pretty damn fast. Thankfully, he was able kick a leg under hers and shove his legs further apart to better anchor himself. It prevented her from getting enough force to use him as a counterweight.

Somewhere in his brain, it clicked that he was pretty fucking lucky that she was probably not at her best due to increasingly lengthy time in prison. Or else he would've been dead in the matter of a few hits. A shame for her, though he'd never in a million years trade places with the little beast. It wasn't his fucking fault that her luck had run out.

Her body went stiff when he pressed his arm even harder to her windpipe in warning. "Good," he snarled, tongue licking at the blood trickling down his lip, the taste coppery and warm, "'Cause if ya move one more fuckin' time, I'll snap that pretty 'lil neck 'o yours, yeah?" She remained silent, so he took it for acceptance.

Gingerly letting go of her hair to ensure she didn't reel back for another blow, he still kept his arm solidly clutched around her neck. Swiftly reaching down, he retrieved the rope. Looping it around her hands, he double checked the knots. Looked like that blighter, Charles, was a solid fuck-up when it came to restraining prisoners. That had to be the only explanation of how she could've escaped her bonds.

"Now," he huffed, "I'm gonna to drop ya to the floor. And ya ain't gonna fuckin' move, got it?!" Her body went even more rigid at that, no doubt rearing up for another attack. His ears ringing from his head getting shoved into the floor, he was in no mood for another fight. Not at moment, at least. And _fuck,_ his throat hurt. So he settled for threats.

"Look 'ere, ya 'lil _shit! _Ya try 'n kill me again, God as me witness, I'll give ya a sound beating ya won't ever fuckin' forget."

In spite of his words, she still didn't relax. Son of a bitch, what a stubborn little tosser. Well, time to step it up.

"And that'll be _after_ I stick my cock right up yer tight 'lil rump for payment." She certainly let out a hiss at that. "Then, I'll hand ya over to the guards for their fun. And unlike most up in 'ere, you're a nice bit 'o tits 'n ass. So I wonder 'ow long they'll keep all their attentions focused on ya, eh?" His mother would've skinned him alive for such vileness. Then again, she never attempted to fucking choke him out. Besides, judging by the girl's subtle nod, she was taking his words seriously. Good.

Feeling her relax, he let her go. She hit to the floor with little more than a grunt. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he inspected the damage with his fingertips. It wasn't much. But his vision was swimming, the ringing in his ears hadn't let up and half of his face was swelling up. His lungs also still burned from a lack of air.

Frustrated, he growled and raised a hand to smack her across her insolent face. She didn't even bother to flinching at his action. Stock still and bracing for the impact, her eyes were narrowed to dangerous slits of black. Her split lip curled with derision and teeth bared, it lent her the look of a rabid dog ready to rip out his throat at the latest provocation.

He surprised himself when he paused mid swing. She barely reacted to it.

Letting out a hiss of retort, he settled for shoving her cheek into the wall with a rough hand while scuffing at her calf with the edge of his boot. Outside of a wince and "oomph!" of impact as she connected with the stone, she said not a word. Crouching to where she was haphazardly slumped on the floor, he snatched her by the chin, forcing her to meet his incensed gaze. "Now, stay put, ya daft 'lil mongrel," he growled, taking in the way her dark gaze was still narrowed at him, fierce and unbowed. Her swelling, bloody nose twitched, almost as though she was _sniffing_ at him, the barbarous wench. "Daddy's gotta see how much damage ya bloody wrought so he can go thinkin' up the proper punishment, eh?" She still didn't reply, save a mutter of foreign words.

Cuffing her ear for her efforts, he leaned down and tied up her feet as well. Considering he was due to be released today, there was no need to worry about her nearly escaping again. At least that's what he had to tell himself as he doubled and tripled checked his knots. If only because he was dangerously close to getting killed just now. _Way_ bloody close, in fact.

For the loved of fucking God, why in the bloody hell had Charles dumped this feral little bitch on his doorstep?

* * *

"Why have you not…assaulted me?" It was not said with fear. Or anger. Or murderous intent. Rather, with an exhausted sort of acceptance.

"Wot, love?" Hickey snarled, flipping a page of the newspaper, "Don't tell me our little brawl got ya all wet and wantin'? Wot, ya bloodlust need a bit of a fix?" he let out a spiteful chuckle. Hopefully, the threat would shut her up.

After all, they were the first words she'd spoken in well over two hours. From her position securely trussed on the floor the cell and next to his bed, she'd made barely a scrape of noise. Yet he knew was awake the entire time. The feel of her eyes boring into his back where he sat at his desk, his feet propped up and reading the afternoon paper, was unmistakable. He could only chalk it up to her sheer frustration of not being able to strangle him when she had the chance. Now, he had a pounding headache, split lip and a half-swollen face for her troubles. Meanwhile, her bloodied nose, bruised ribs and the nail marks all up and down her arms were his malevolent gifts to her.

They would've made a comical sight, the pair of them now looking like old, battered, bare-knuckle boxers. Well, except for the fact that she'd fucking tried to kill him. Yet a distant part of his mind couldn't blame her; you could sure as shit bet that he would've fought just as dirty, had their roles been reversed. Admittedly, he'd always had a predilection for shit-stirring little scrappers.

Then again, she could've been a bit more civil and not _tried to fucking kill him._

"Hardly," she quietly retorted after a long while. He let out a long, exasperated sigh at the fact that she couldn't take the hint and snap up her yap as she continued, "I simply expect it of you."

Who in the hell did she think he was?!

Oh, he'd lost what little honor he had long ago, of that there was no doubt. His life's blood was smuggling and espionage. He'd unapologetically lied cheated his way to the top of the black market. Of course, he'd killed men. To the point where it'd become almost bothersome whenever he was called upon to do so for the sake of necessity. He was certainly a man of all sorts of lechery. Never too picky about the skirts he chased and bedded, a bit of coin and a draft of beer completed his usual trifecta of appetites. But there was a world of difference between taking a wanting lass and stealing what hadn't been freely given. And he sure as shit wasn't no thief of _that_ sort of thing.

Then again, he had little desire to explore why exactly the dodgy little git's assumption of that sort of contemptible behavior from him pissed him off even more. He'd never bothered thinking too much on such complexities. Mostly because it'd never done damn a thing to either fatten his pockets or contribute to his various indulgences. So he settled for the usual insult and intimidation.

"Well, if ya don't shut ya yap," he jeered, still not bothering to look back at her, "I ain't makin' no promises that a piece of 'ole Hickey won't end up all up in ya!"

"Understood," she steadily said.

_Thank whatever savage gods ya pray to that I ain't no right proper deviant, poppet. No matter what Lee and the lot 'o 'em be thinkin' of me supposed inclinations,_ he furiously mused. _Which has gotta be the only bloody reason why that wanker dumped you in me lap._

Within a half hour, the sounds of her even breathing signaled that she was finally asleep. Glancing back at the setting sun through the bars of his window, he shook his head in irritated dismay. For fuck's sake, Lee was supposed to bail him out hours ago.

Ugh, what a bloody prat.

* * *

Thankfully, Lee finally decided to drag his sorry arse back up to Bridewell the next morning. Along with some longwinded plan to frame his temporary cellmate for their plot against Washington. Plus, the murder of the warden. Though Hickey personally didn't think was the best idea to inform her of _entire fucking thing._ Then again, what did he care? He was finally getting the fuck out of here.

He found himself rolling his eyes as Charles made his usual megalomaniacal threats at the little beast. Seriously, if he kept waving his flintlock about like that, the whiny bugger was bound to end up shooting _him._ Couldn't they just say their goodbyes and be on their way? Being in the clink for over a fortnight was plenty of time for him to decide he that he pretty much despised enclosed spaces. No matter a better cell and whatnot.

Alright, so he couldn't hold back a chuckle at the 'lil wolf's astonishment that their apparent order expected everyone to fall in line. Such was life. Either you swam with big fish, or got ripped to bits by the lot of them. Looked like she was about to get eaten. And not in the good way.

Oh well.

"What in the hell happened to your face, Thomas?" Charles snorted, his irksome voice snapping Hickey out of his thoughts as he slammed the woman's cell door closed. "Please don't tell me our guest," he nodded to where Connor appeared as though she was mentally calculating the slowest, bloodiest and most vicious way to flay them both, "Gave you much trouble?" he chuckled. "Because it would be a true pity if she has yet to learn the valuable lesson of _obedience."_

Gaze narrowing and taking in how Lee's hand lingered on the lock to her cell, Hickey suddenly found himself sneering, "Got inta a bit 'o fisticuffs in the yard. Not that it be any of ya fuckin' concern." Eyes snapping to his at his supposed explanation, she arched a brow of utter surprise. He could almost see the wheels of confusion spinning in her head at his unexpected lie.

Frankly, he didn't want to dwell on it either.

"Well, I certainly hope the other lout looks worse," Charles scoffed.

"Ya assumin' he lived through it," Hickey rolled his eyes. "Besides, it ain't like I've ever let ya down on that front, eh?" he snickered, ignoring the peculiar pull at his gut as she continued silently staring at him.

"Surprise, surprise, you still serve some use," Charles retorted with a dismissive wave, spinning on his heel and finally leading him out of this hellhole.

Shooting him a cross expression, Hickey growled, "Oh, go knock off 'o it, ya feckless pillock!"

Soon, the assassin's fate was the furthest thing from his mind. He had some tail to chase and copious of amounts of drinking to catch up on, after all.


	2. Escape from the Gallows

**June 28, 1776**

"'Ello Connor! Didn't think I'd miss ya goin' away party, did ya?" Hickey brightly declared, dragging her out of the wagon some feet from the gallows. She remained silent, reduced to fixing him with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred. If he were a lesser man, he would've flinched under that lethal gaze. Instead, he settled for the usual taunting. "I hear Washington 'imself is gonna be in attendance. Hope nothin' bad 'appens to him!"

Her eyes widened for a split second as she spat out, "You said there'd be a trial!"

"Ah, no trials for traitors I'm afraid," Hickey sighed with exaggerated regret. Though he didn't really know if he was serious or relieved.

This whole affair was quickly turning into a clusterfuck of constantly shifting bullshit. Frankly, he was getting bloody sick of it. Particularly with the big bosses making all sorts of preposterous demands of him. If they would've just let him carry out his plan and quietly knock off Washington, the deed would've been done weeks ago. Now, they were offering up their sacrificial lamb to the hordes. What a waste, she could've been quite useful to Haytham and his grand schemes. Especially considering the little nutter had a mean left hook and a tendency towards attempting to kill whatever got in her way. His bruised face and neck bore the rather glaring signs of that, along with his dead accomplices. Then again, her reckless tendencies proved an irritating thorn in his side. So yeah, it would be best to rid the world of her.

…maybe?

Hmm, perhaps this was why the Order never left him to make any of the big decisions.

Thoughts swiftly returning back to the present, he shrugged, "Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you."

Her expression suddenly brokered no tolerance for negotiation as she turned and cast him a steady stare. He could blame it on the blurriness of the rain. Or the addictive bloodlust of the crowd addling his brain. But he could swear her cracked lip twitched upwards in a smirk as she firmly promised, "I will not die today. The same cannot be said for you."

Hickey's blood ran cold, his boots seeming stuck in mud as he froze. Rapidly blinking, his mind reeled at her insinuation.

Sure, he'd willingly thrown in his lot with the Templars, mostly at 'ole Willie Johnson's urging. But it wasn't due to any hair-brained allegiance to some hazy, ridiculous, higher power. Screw the hierarchy, he was here to get a leg up and avoid the poor house. That it was pretty convenient and paid exceedingly well was an added bonus. Aye, they went on and on about their supposedly lofty goals. What, with their diatribes about seeking world peace through order and combating chaos with an unyielding hand and blah de fucking blah. But if he was to be honest (and how long had it been since there'd been a need to do _that?_), it was all a bunch of bollocks.

Except, now there was the asinine conviction of the homicidal little chit as she walked her way to the gallows. Seriously, she couldn't bother to give a flying fuck about the fact that she due for a long drop and a short stop in the matter of a few minutes? A broken neck, the mocking of the crowds and then a pine box. Assuming she was lucky and they didn't rush to desecrate her corpse, that is. How could she not see there was no way back?

He was glad the other officer shoved her forward with a threat to shut her mouth. He didn't intervene when some strumpet decided to send her reeling to the ground with a solid clock to the face.

He snorted in derision as Lee read out the final condemnation.

He looked away when the sound of the trapdoor snapped and reverberated in the air, a finality if he ever heard one.

A pity. That pretty little face wouldn't do her any damn good now.

Except the crowd suddenly let out a hushed groan. Their silence going on for far too long, Hickey cracked one eye open and looked up toward the gallows.

Oh, for _fuck's_ sake! How in the bloody hell had the slippery little scrubber managed to get loose?!

Head snapping between the demon coming at him with a tomahawk (seriously, a mother-fuckin' ax?!) and where Washington stood about a hundred feet in front of him, Hickey knew his decision would result in one of two outcomes. Either it would cost him his life, or he could eke out an escape by the skin of his teeth. So, he did what any normal gent would do when dropped between a rock and the psychotic ruffian swiftly becoming his hard place.

He fled.

* * *

In spite of squinting against the driving rain and stumbling a few times along the wet, filthy ground, Connor's blood was singing. The beautifully familiar weight of her tomahawk in her grip was a welcome respite from prison. Artfully twirling it about in her hand, she sighed in relief. Now, to complete her mission.

Her quarry vainly attempting to shove past the press of people surrounding him, Connor's gaze flicked to where Washington was already being hustled away from the pandemonium. Well, that would make the task at hand a bit easier. Still, she was too far away to stop Hickey. She needed a back-up plan. Thankfully, it stepped in front of her in the form of a soldier snarling for her surrender and threatening to shoot her.

She didn't so much as pause as she ducked under the barrel of his musket and sent her elbow crashing into his nose. With him distracted, she swiped the dagger sheathed in his hip from his sword belt. A blink of an eye and he was swallowed back up the crowd, no longer her problem. Using the mob's panic to her advantage, she charged sideways to utilize a less congested pathway. It also gave her a clearer view of her recruits making their way towards her along the rooftops. It'd take them a bit to reach her, giving her a solid window of time to question Hickey.

Balancing the newly acquired blade on her fingertips, she hurled it at her target. It landed true, the contemptible lout crumbling to the cobblestones with a satisfying yelp of pain.

"Dammit," Hickey indifferently sniffed, looking down at his hands as she approached, "I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame."

"If I wished you dead, you would not still be breathing," Connor vowed, dropping to her knees and leaning over him. Eyes alight with fiery determination, she grit, "I want answers."

Without warning, she abruptly jerked the dagger out of his shoulder. It sent him reeling out a litany of strained curses, his breath hitching in spurts. Tossing the knife away and shoving the tomahawk under his chin, she pressed her hand to his wound in warning. It was all the proof he needed to make it clear that she had no qualms about drawing out his agony.

"Why did Johnson try and buy my people's land?" she charged, dark eyes flashing with ire. "Why was Pitcairn targeting Adams and Hancock? What purpose would Washington's murder have served? Why does your order support the British?" she demanded.

"How should I know?" Hickey spat out a shaky cough before fixing her with a defiant stare. "The Templars. Lee. The big man, Haytham." He gave a ragged chuckle as she flinched at the mere mention of her apparent greatest enemy. "They 'as the money. They 'as the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em. That's the _only_ reason." Connor's expression slid to stunned as he continued, "Sure, they 'ave some sort of vision for the future too. I didn't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles. They can make their plans and spring their traps, don't bother me none," he smirked. "They _paid_ me, so I said yes. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care."

Connor shot him with a look of disgust, her gaze clouded with loathing. "You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity? Simply because it was more _profitable?!"_

"What else is there?" Hickey scowled. "I'm not some blind fool who'd give up all I've got on principle. What is principle anyway? Can ya bring it to the bank?"

Connor sadly shook her head in disbelief, causing Hickey to roll his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that. We're different, you and I; you're just some blind fool who's always chasin' butterflies, whereas I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand and a titty in the other," he flexed his fingers. "Thing is, _girl,_ I can have what I seek. Had it, even. You? Your hands will _always_ be empty." He let out a chortle at her expression of obvious confusion. "All of this soddin' trouble for the likes of ya? A pity we didn't wipe out the lot 'o ya like we was supposed to, all those years ago."

Face twisting into an ugly snarl, she pressed her knee a bit too close to his groin for his liking. "You would do well to cease your pointless blathering!"

_"Make me,_ 'lil she-wolf-"

Her head jerked up at the worrisome sound of muskets suddenly being reloaded. Frantically looking around, she let out a growl of annoyance at seeing a handful of soldiers bearing down on them. Beneath her, Hickey's callous laugh echoed in her ears, even as she pressed her tomahawk hard enough into his neck to draw a cut of blood. "Looks like ya got some 'ard decisions to make, sweetheart," he mocked, even as he winced. "Do ya get shot to shit? Or do ya let 'Ole Hickey escape, eh?"

"Quiet your incessant chattering!" she hissed, digging her knee into his inner thigh and giving him a firm shake along his shoulder that caused him spit out a garbled curse of pain.

"Ten seconds, darlin'!" he sneered.

He wasn't going anywhere, by the looks of it. And she still had to warn Washington.

She reeled back and soundly punched Hickey in the jaw, not caring about how her fist ached at the impact. It did its task, effectively knocking him out. _Let the soldiers collect him,_ she mused. Besides, they were both still surrounded by the terrified, fleeing crowd. If they opened fire on her, they'd injure or even kill innocent civilians. She had to get the hell out of here.

Reaching down, she swiftly snatched up her newly acquired dagger and relieved Hickey of his overcoat. In spite of the large patch of fresh blood blooming across its ripped shoulder, it would be better at letting her blend in than nothing at all. Tossing it on, she leapt to her feet and shoved through the crowd. It wasn't hard to act to the part of the confused civilian trying to escape the square; she now couldn't see where Achilles or her recruits were.

She nearly stabbed the arm of whoever suddenly snatched at her wrist, shoving him away from with her other hand. "It's just me, miss!" a familiar voice slid across her ears as his grip slightly loosened. "'Tis alright, you're nice and safe now!"

Letting out a muffled sob at the familiar sound of Clipper's eager voice, she quickly collected herself as he dragged her up against a brick wall. It took a healthy bit of her resolve to steel her usual impassive expression to her face. She also furtively ran a hand across her eyes under the auspices of drying her face from the rain. It went a long way towards concealing the tears spilling down her cheeks. For now, she would blame it on the sheer relief of finally being not quite so near death.

"Clipper, thank you," she latched onto his arm and urged them forward. "How did you all-?"

"Tallmadge sent word to Mr. Davenport," he declared, trailing in her wake.

"Remind me to thank him for his assistance as well," she breathed. Desperately ignoring the flash of agony that flared through her body due to her bruised ribs from falling through the trap door, she gulped down mouthfuls of air. Shaking her head in an effort to get her bearings as her vision swam with the beginnings of a fever, Connor squared her shoulders and questioned, "Where is Washington?!"

"Don't you worry yourself none, Connor," Clipper flashed her a relieved smile, his sparkling blue eyes alight with triumph, "He's-"

The sound of an order to prepare to fire snapped Connor out of the conversation. Glancing over, she muttered a curse in her native language at finding a half-dozen soldiers with their weapons aimed right them. Gripping her knife and tightening her hold on her tomahawk, she shoved Clipper behind her as she dropped to fighting stance.

"At ease, men! _At ease!_ I said lower your god-damned guns!"

Thankfully, there was no need to brace for or duck a volley of bullets as Israel Putnam barked out his order. Behind her, Connor could hear Clipper let out a deep sigh of relief. Not that she blamed him in the slightest.

"This woman's a hero!" Putnam bellowed, marching forward. "The general can be so stubborn sometimes," he grimaced, shaking his head and taking in the general anarchy of the square. "'Piffle,' he said when we warned him something like this would happen. 'Piffle!'"

"The traitor you are looking for is over there," Connor pointed in the general direction of where she'd left him. "His name is Thomas Hickey. He's an officer with the Connecticut militia and part of the general's bodyguard."

"Good!" Putnam declared. "Men, go gather him up!" he shouted, waving for them to do so, "We don't want to deny the people their blood sport today, eh? I believe a hanging was scheduled, and we may still get our wish-"

"Stop!" Connor held up an adamant hand as the soldiers fanned out to collect Hickey, "He deserves a fair trial."

"He wanted to _kill_ the Commander!" Putnam retorted with disbelief, "Nearly killed you as well. He's a scoundrel-"

"But still a man," Connor steadily said. "For justice to be served, he must be tried for his actions."

"Even though he denied the very same to you, girl?!" Putnam shot her a look of absolute disbelief. As she silently nodded, he rolled his eyes and chomped on his cigar, snorting, "You're nothing, if not consistent."

As they discussed Washington's whereabouts, Connor nearly passed out from the waves of weariness washing over her. Finding out the general was heading to Philadelphia, she was thankful as Clipper politely made his excuses to Putnam that they had to go. Ushering her away, he soon brought her to inn where he, the other recruits and Achilles were staying.

Ignoring everything else, she collapsed into bed. She attempted to brush off the doctor Achilles fetched for her and fall asleep right then and there. But Clipper, Stephane and Duncan were having none of it. Their concerned fuss over her caused her to alternately blush and stammer with grateful surprise. Distracting her from her embarrassment with a few bold tales of how they carried off her rescue, they swore to return as soon as the doctor finished with her.

She insisted to the physician that she hadn't been violated in prison. So there was no need for him to perform an incredibly awkward sort of personal exam. One small comfort was that the Templars apparently wanted her to survive long enough to make it to the gallows. No doubt, the damned guards were in on their plans, likely due to the promise of coin. Hence, why they constantly kept her in solitary confinement for the most part. At least before she earned her way into the pit and then ended up in Hickey's cell.

Otherwise, she'd suffered a black eye, a swollen cheek and split lip, bruised rips, two broken fingers on her right hand, some cuts, lacerations and probably a mild concussion. Not to mention, the slight fever she was running. The doctor warned that her illness was the biggest concern, for it could easily grow worse if she wasn't fully rested. Patching her up, leaving her with a sleeping draught and ordering her to remain in bed for the next few days, he soon departed.

Achilles quickly had a bath brought up. "Hush up, girl, we'll discuss this later," he waved off her apology for getting herself into such a dire situation, "For there are always lessons to learn from one's mistakes." Dropping a fresh set of clothes on the bed, he retreated from her room. After the bath, he and her recruits promised her they would all have supper in her quarters.

_What does my father have to do with all of this?_ Connor's mind tiredly wandered as she scrubbed off the last fortnight of filth with a groan of relief. _And most importantly, what is the next step in putting an end to the Templars?_

* * *

Lip curled with incredulity, Haytham took in the panicked crowds fleeing the scene of the would-be execution from his position in the alleyway. Just off the main square, it was hidden enough to not attract attention from the patrols of soldiers screaming and shouting for peace. In the few moments, they'd likely start arresting the stragglers. Or perhaps even shooting them, should it all descend into true anarchy. He had to get off the streets.

Forcing his breathing to slow, he shook his head to clear it of the sobering image of his daughter's drop through the trap door of the gallows. Thankfully, it appeared the girl _(Woman,_ he swiftly corrected himself, _She has some twenty years to her and ceased being a child long ago)_ had allies of some sort. That had to be the case, considering the arrow that snapped through the noose's rope a half-minute before his throwing knife finished their work.

Peeking out from his position once more, he shook his head in disbelief as Connor exchanged apparent pleasantries with that lunatic, Israel Putnam. As though that barbarian halfwit had anything to do with her rescue. To put it lightly, she had no idea that her life had been in his hands. And if he had anything to do with it, she would never come to find out he'd all but signed her death warrant. How she'd grown into such a naïve, impetuous sort was well beyond him. Frankly, it was saved her from the noose, his curiosity solidly piqued.

So much like her mother, for better or worse. That she contained Ziio's sharp, bright eyes, full mouth and the charming smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks served to only make it all the more painful. She also shared his own nose, cheeks and the turn of his chin. That in turn made his failings all the more evident when he first laid eyes on her back in Bridewell.

"The 'lil wolf stabbed the ever livin' shit outta me!" Hickey's accusatory voice ripped Haytham from his musings. Panting in increasing distress from his position braced on Haytham's shoulder, Hickey let out a ragged sigh. "Seriously?" he protested, "I'm starin' to get pretty fuckin' tired of that fussock layin' 'er hands on me and me always comin' out on the loosin' end." He completely missed Haytham's flinch at his insult of Connor as he pouted, "It ain't bloody fair!"

"Well then, perhaps you should have avoided her path, now shouldn't you?" Haytham sniffed, readjusting the oaf's weight from where he'd dragged him from the middle of the street. When the hell had the boy gotten so damned heavy?

"C'mon then!" Hickey slurred, "I take bloody…offense at that, gov'nor! I did as ya said, goin' after Washington at the first chance it all went to shit!" Head lolling forward, the blood spilling from his shoulder was slowly beginning to stain Haytham's dark overcoat, much to the grandmaster's chagrin. Not to mention, Hickey was starting to babble. No doubt from the blood loss.

"See, that be the problem! You lot always go accusin' me 'o bein' thickheaded," he pointed a shaky finger in Haytham's face. "Of how I'm always cockin' up yer…grand schemes!" he waved his uninjured arm about in exaggerated circles. "But who's the one who took the fall for ya? _Twice,_ I may say?" he shakily held up a second finger for emphasis. "Whose arse went 'n got tossed in the clink? Who went 'n just got a _fuckin' knife to me shoulder?!"_ he growled, voice ebbing every so often as he winced in pain.

"For the love of God, boy, quiet your chattering!" Haytham ordered, continuing to drag him in the opposite direction of the square until they finally spilled out of the long alleyway. "You'll bring down the law on us. And neither I nor you are prepared to talk our way out of that one, at least not at the moment."

Hickey could barely hear the grandmaster over the increasingly loud roar of his own heartbeat. Sweat starting to pour down his face from his exertions, he let out a fevered guffaw of laughter. "Who stayed 'is base urges when she got thrown in me path, hmm?" he adamantly nodded. "I ne'ver laid a hand on 'er when Charles dumped 'er off in me cell. No siree bob, I swear on me lovely mother, I didn't."

"Wait, _what?"_ Haytham was suddenly compelled to pull up short. Giving the area a cursory once-over, he saw that this section of the city was virtually deserted. While the farmland bordering Fort George didn't offer much cover, they were closer to his usual physician and likely out of harm's way.

"Did I stutter, mate?" Hickey groused.

Shooting him a look of reproach, Haytham purposely dropped Hickey to a bench hard enough to cause him to let out a howl of pain. Wiping his brow, he insisted, "Now what of this business about how Charles supposedly moved her to your cell?" It was admittedly a struggle for him keep his voice composed. The years of training had served him exceptionally well in that regard. Particularly as his mind raced at Hickey's insinuations concerning Charles' behavior. Then again, he was well aware that there was no love lost between the two. How unfortunate, as they were quite similar in many aspects.

"Now lookee here," Hickey took a few deep, shaky breaths before closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall, "All I's sayin' is-"

Without warning, the church bells from the square inexplicably began ringing again, which could only signal further trouble. It would best to make themselves scarce. As he waved for Hickey to get to his feet, Haytham retorted, "We will deal with this later."

Within a few minutes, they were in front of a nondescript, brick townhome that lay within sight of Fort George. Haytham rapped three firm knocks followed by two more in rapid succession upon the door. An old man of medium height answered it. However, the chain on door prevented it from being opened more than a few inches. "Hey now gents," he hissed through the crack of door, "I don't want no trouble-"

"You _will_ assist us, Dr. Jameson," Haytham snorted, swiftly shoving his boot into the doorway and preventing him from slamming it in their faces.

Startled, the old man narrowed his eyes. . In his late sixties, he was short and stooped. Leaning heavily on his wicker cane, he peered out at them through his gold-rimmed glasses. His clothes shabby and threaded about the edges, the only hint of wealth about him was the gold chain of his pocket watch tucked into the fob of his dark waistcoat. Combined with his bald head riddled with age spots, he appeared thoroughly unassuming.

A glimmer of recognition clouding his face, he suddenly cracked a small smile. "Ah, master Kenway!" he finally exclaimed. His entire demeanor shifting to deferential, he unhooked the chain and flung open the door. "Come in, come in," he waved after glancing about to ensure they weren't being watched. "I see you've bought Thomas as well," he snickered, "I take it the lad needs to sleep off yet another tainted batch of beer?" he ushered them inside.

"Sod off, ya dodgy codger!" Hickey slurred, "I got a fuckin' _knife_ hurled inta me-"

"He's injured," Haytham cut him off as he rolled his eyes in apology to the doctor, "And loosing blood fast."

Ushering them past the front parlor, Dr. Jameson led them down into the basement. Haytham half-carried Hickey while the doctor rushed around and lit various lamps. As they spluttered to life, their soft glow revealed a large, clean, wood paneled room stocked with enough supplies to perform a litany of medical procedures. The two men then maneuvered Hickey onto the operating table. Propping him so that he sat haphazardly leaning up against the wall, Jameson quickly stripped him of his waistcoat and tunic. Inspecting the injury, he began diligently working on it.

Finally getting a chance to take a good look at Hickey, Haytham raised an inquiring brow. The other man's jaw was freshly swollen. Not to mention the purple bruising around his neck, the abrasion to his forehead and his healing split lip. Admittedly, he'd noticed all of the latter when Hickey was released from prison yesterday. But he'd been too caught up in the events of this sordid tale to take full note of it. Save his shoulder, Hickey's fresher injuries were mostly along his face and neck.

"What brought all this about, Thomas?" Haytham nonchalantly asked, briefly pointing at them.

Spitting out a glob of blood at his feet, Hickey took a long swig of the rum directly from the bottle the doctor had procured for him. Sloppily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he cringed. He then rubbed at his throbbing jaw and clenched his teeth, snapping, "That bloody brat back at the gallows, that's wot happened, see!"

Narrowing his eyes, Haytham clucked, "Funny. I'd have thought you easily able to defend yourself against a wet behind the ears woman."

"The poppet packs a mean wallop, that she do," Hickey grimaced. "And this?" he pointed accusingly at his neck, "Oh that bit 'o damage be the result 'o the 'lil savage-"

_"Language,_ Hickey," Haytham murmured a warning, shoulders stiffening.

"I don't mean 'cause she _be_ half-native," Hickey swatted at the air and rolled his eyes before taking another swig. "Johnson's pretty 'lil widow, Miss Molly, be full native. I ain't never had no problem with 'er, yeah? Charles' bit 'o forest fruit from all those years back was a right lovely lass, rest 'er soul."

"Point taken," Haytham tersely replied before clasping his hands behind his back.

"Anyway's, the 'lil terror decided to go try 'n strangle me in me cell. And she came too bloody close to succeedin', I'd say! Hell, you'd probably be buryin' me corpse if she hadn't been in lock-up for a fortnight 'afore she tried it." Taking in Haytham's brief expression of surprise, Hickey closed his eyes and let out an annoyed sigh before meeting the grandmaster's gaze. "All I's sayin' is, she be _savage,_ Kenway. Like, pound me arse into the ground with 'er bare hands and nary a lick 'o remorse,_fuckin'_ vicious!"

Glancing away, Haytham's mind reeled at Hickey's revelation. Along with a disturbingly warm sort of satisfaction. Not only did Ziio give him a child, she apparently granted him a finely honed weapon. Yet Hickey revealed a rather glaring hindrance; said weapon was obviously pointed in the wrong direction and at a wrongly perceived enemy.

"Anythin' else?" Hickey's slurred voice interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, Haytham saw the man looked to be a few minutes from passing out. The stitches in his shoulder appeared only halfway complete as well.

"No, that will be all, Thomas," Haytham calmly replied. "Not to worry, you will be greatly rewarded for your services. Chiefly, in keeping your hands to yourself," he wrinkled his nose is distaste.

"Hey now, I like me coin well enough. But I wasn't lookin' to be all sordid and wot not with 'er," Thomas rocked forward and waved a dismissive hand at Haytham. "Frankly, boy-o?" he slowly said, eyes sliding closed for a moment so he could collect himself, "You need to go have a little sit-down with that bloomin' arsehole, Lee. He's the one that wanted me to do to 'er…whatever 'n the fuck the blighter thought I'd be too dimwitted to do to 'er."

Haytham gave a snort of disbelief at that, shaking his head in disagreement. "I am sure Charles meant no such ill intent-"

"Who in the bloody hell do he think he be foolin'?!" Hickey bellowed, raising his bottle in challenge. "I was there, Kenway! I bloody saw the expectation of what he wanted 'o me with me own two eyes. And God as me witness, that sinister 'lil sonofabitch wanted me to…oi!" his eyes widened at how Haytham abruptly took a handful of silent steps forward.

Well, this shit was quickly spinning _way_ too out of control.

It did no one any sort of good whenever Haytham Kenway found it necessary to invade one's personal space. Especially, when that infuriated gaze was combined with that increasingly taciturn expression that was starting to paint the grandmaster's face. A mingling of those two, and you usually ended up dead. Or pretty solidly maimed, for life. Eerie, the she-wolf wore a similar expression, more often than not. It was bloody uncanny…

"Oi!" Hickey thundered, swatting at Dr. Jameson's arm as he slid the stitching needle into his skin, "Watch yer fuckin' hands, mate!" he hissed. Rolling his eyes, the doctor insisted that he drink himself into more of a stupor. Fucking hell, it as though half his back was on bloody fire. Finishing off the rum in one long gulp, Hickey tossed the bottle behind his uninjured shoulder, not giving a damn as it shattered across the floorboards. All that really mattered was that a fresh one inexplicably appeared in his hand within a few seconds. Good on that, then. Now he remembered why the old Doctor wasn't a complete tosser.

"Thomas," Haytham lightly said, interrupting his thoughts, "I need you to focus and remember _exactly_ what you did with the woman in your cell, yes?"

Letting out a piercing burp, Hickey murmured, "Alrighty 'en, boss, I get ya." Dropping a hand to his lap, he began nervously rubbing it along his thigh as he quickly nodded, "So, uh, how can I go puttin' this in the sort 'o…_delicate_ terms I need to properly convey it? Mostly so that ya don't go end up stabbin' me clean through me precious throat?"

Haytham gave a careless shrug in spite of his quietly vehement, "I would say that for once, you need to think _very _carefully before you speak, Thomas."

"I see, I see, I'm gettin' it," he mumbled. Pausing for a bit, Hickey swallowed before slowly beginning. "Lee put her in me cell a day 'afore I was released. Now, what crossed his addled brain to go doin' such? We ain't exactly ever been close, so I ain't one to know his motivations." Looking downwards, he saw one of Haytham's hands bunched along his cloak, his knuckle beginning to turn white. "All I did was point out to 'im that 'er being there was a waste 'o time," Hickey swiftly continued, "Save gettin' outta her clutches when she laid into me, I kept me hands square off 'o her."

"This is all that transpired when she was there?" Haytham slowly replied, enunciating each word.

"I swear it on me mother's grave," Hickey held up a hand of surrender. Worrying his lip with his teeth, he exhaled, "I admit I be a lot 'o unsavory things, Haytham," he shrugged. "But I don't go about takin' to me bed what ain't given to me freely, catch me drift? I ain't all unseemly like that."

Admittedly, it was true. Hickey had zero qualms when it came to thieving, spying and being generally conniving. He whored and drank as though his life depended on it. He never flinched at having to kill for the sake of carrying out a mission. But physical violation had never been a charge leveled against him. Nor was he apt to deceive, at least not when it came to staying in line with the Order. In spite of his coarse demeanor and tendency towards the wanton, he'd proven thoroughly dependable. Well, save getting caught for counterfeiting this time. Then again, his own daughter was more to blame for that muck up. So he had no reason to disbelieve him.

"I will speak to Charles," Haytham replied, "And you shall come to see that it was all a misunderstanding."

"Humph," Hickey sneered, "A likely story," he slurred. A few moments later and he lost consciousness. Dr. Jameson assured Haytham that the boy would recover, assuming a few day's rest and infection didn't set in.

Leaving the doctor to it, Haytham allowed his mind to wander. Salvaging his today's ruined plans would prove rather simple. It was the new challenge ahead of him that would require a more nuanced touch. Mostly, how best to make his apparent daughter see the error of her ways. Without a doubt, he'd many regrets in his life so far. But allowing the last of the Kenway line slip through his fingers so easily was most certainly not going to be one them. Not so long as he still drew breath.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_"Johnson's pretty 'lil widow, Miss Molly, be full native. I ain't never had no problem with 'er, yeah? Charles' bit 'o forest fruit from all those years back was a right lovely lass, rest 'er soul."_

The first part of Hickey's ramblings refers to William Johnson's common-law wife/consort, Molly Brandt, (c.1736 – April 16, 1796). She was also known as Mary Brant, Konwatsi'tsiaienni ("Someone Lends Her a Flower"), and Degonwadonti. A Mohawk woman, she was born either in the village of Canajoharie or in another village in the Ohio Country. She was also the sister of Joseph Brandt, a famous Mohawk chieftain. Joseph was a loyalist who led Iroquois against the Patriots after July 1777, when the Six Nations council decided to abandon their neutrality and side with the British. Most of Joseph's battles against the Patriots were carried out in New York, during the Northern Campaign.

Starting in September 1759, Molly bore William Johnson nine children. Eight of them survived to adulthood. Accepted by society as his wife, Molly was a legendary figure who ran his household and acted as hostess for various society functions. She also helped him maintain relations with the Mohawk and other members of the Iroquois Confederation, along with her brother. Molly was living with William Johnson at Johnson Hall when he died in July 1774. Upon his death, while his oldest son inherited Johnson Hall, Johnson left land, money and slaves to Molly, who moved back to her village, Canajoharie. There, she and her children prospered as traders and they sided with British during the Revolutionary war.

After the Revolutionary War, Joseph, his sister Molly, her children with William Johnson, and the majority of the remaining Mohawks and other members of Iroquois Confederation, moved to the Six Nations Reserve in Ontario, Canada. Still in existence to this day, it is the only reserve in North America where the six nations of the Iroquois, the Mohawk, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, Seneca and Tuscarora, live together. Molly Brandt was compensated for her losses during the war by the British. At the same time, the United States even offered to pay her to return to the Mohawk Valley in New York, due to her influence over the Iroquois. However, she refused, remaining in Canada.

The second part of Hickey's ramblings refer to Charles Lee. Historically, sometime after 1755, Lee married a Mohawk woman who was the daughter of a chieftain. While her name has been lost to history, she bore him twin sons. Their names and fates have also been lost to history as well. As in the game, Lee was known to the Mohawks as Ounewaterika, or "Boiling Water."


	3. A Murder Most Foul

******Warning: torture and implied violence against a child.**

**Late Autumn, 1776: Boston**

George McCready screamed as his head slammed into his dining room table. His grunt was swiftly cut off as he was hauled upwards by his attacker and then hurled to floor. A kick to his ribs sent another scream bubbling up from his throat. The sound of bone cracking reverberating in ears, tears sprung to his eyes. Clutching his arms around himself, he curled into a fetal position to protect his newly broken ribs as a shadow fell across his crumbled form.

"Now," the heavily accented, German voice rumbled above him, "I would prefer to not ask you again, Herr McCready. If you would be so kind as to tell me where you keep the funds you have pilfered from the General?"

Letting out a hacking cough, George rocked back and forth along the carpeted floor. Swallowing back his sobs, his hazy gaze snapped to his blood spattering the pale carpet as he struggled to speak. A distant part of his brain dwelled on how annoyed his wife would be at having to scrub out the stains. Assuming he lived through this, of course. Caroline was always exceedingly particular about keeping a clean abode.

Before he could respond, a rough hand snatched him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. A leather-clad backhand loosening a couple of his teeth, it sent one of them flying from his mouth. Before he could collect himself or send out a howl of pain, he was dropped into a chair.

Whimpering, he could barely hear the other man murmur, "Come now, you have wasted enough of my time. All I require is that you confess to your crimes, _ja?"_

Running a shaky, sweaty hand through his thinning, light brown hair, George shivered. His slim frame shook and nearly sent him crashing to the floor. If not for his tormentor dropping a heavy hand to his arm and keeping him in place, he would've slid out of his seat. Mouth swimming with blood, he spat it out onto the carpet before whispering, "I-I told you…I barely took b-b-but a few pounds from the G-General's…convoys! Besides, w-why would he send a soldier to question…me?"

The other man let out a loud sigh as he withdrew his dagger from his boot. George's eyes went wide as he deftly twirled it about his meaty fingers. Taking in the soldier's brightly polished, black dragoon boots, tan breeches and dark brown infantry coat with its black embellishment, he appeared every inch the mercenary. It was made all the more so by his glossy, black fusilier cap and exquisitely crafted leather holster. Save the black Templar cross embroidered along the right thigh of his breeches, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Features only slightly angular and distantly handsome, his face could easily be lost in a crowd.

It made his grim work all the easier. A forgettable visage, a soldier in a time of war within an occupied land, and few would remember him.

"I shall ask you only one more time, Herr McCready-"

"I said I don't…have…the funds! _FUUUUUCK!"_ George screeched in agony as the dagger plunged into his thigh. Legs shaking as his hands vainly clutched at the weapon, his eyes rolled back into his head as his wails echoed off the wood-paneled walls.

Snatching a cloth napkin from the table, the soldier efficiently stuffed it into George's gasping mouth. Muffling his screams, he pulled up a chair and gracefully took a seat. Patiently waiting until George's cries quieted to hiccupping groans of anguish, he tilted his head to the side contemplatively. "Come now," he snapped his fingers in front of George's bleary, red eyes, "Focus my good man. Focus, and I shall be done with you shortly."

Spitting out the napkin along with his other cracked tooth, George looked up unsteadily. Blood poured from his mouth and dribbled down his dark green waistcoat and white tunic. It only served to make it all the more difficult to form words. "Y-you are a monster!" he bleated.

"I am a grenadier," the soldier shrugged, "My calling is war, my duties to my master and to the Order. A pity the same cannot be said for you."

George let out a hysterical laugh, the sound high and manic. "What do you know of _order?"_ he mocked, "Of civilization? You, who torture a man for a mere bit of coin! Your f-fellow Templar, no less!"

Rather than appearing incensed or insulted, the soldier only slowly shook his head in mild disagreement. "I do not steal valuable funds from those who employ me. Yet, you skim profits from General Davenport's convoys. Meanwhile? You withhold food and supplies from the men who fight for these lands."

"M-men who have no right to rule," George struggled to hold up his head. Rapidly blinking back a surge of pain, he wheezed, "Men who use our homes from quarters...a-and kill our boys for sport!"

"My poor, poor, misguided soul," the soldier lightly patted Edward's cheek. Dropping down, he picked up the napkin and hastily shoved it back into George's mouth. As the other man begged for mercy through his make-shift gag, his hands desperately clawing at the soldier who utterly ignored him, the soldier reached down for his dagger. Without hesitation, he slowly began twisting it. The rip of flesh sent George keening, tears spilling down his blotchy face as the blade was turned a quarter of the way.

Waiting again until George's screams dropped to pitched whines, the soldier pulled the gag from his mouth and asked again, "Where are the funds, Herr, McCready?"

Rocking back and forth for a long while, George moaned, his breath hitching every few seconds. "M-my wife," he pleaded, "P-please…my child-"

"I am a patient man," the soldier murmured, "But even I have my limits."

"Go…go to hell!" George hissed.

"I guarantee that you shall arrive first," the soldier shrugged, thoroughly nonplussed.

Without further ado, he yanked the dagger out of George's thigh and promptly plunged it into his chest. Gaze widening, George's lips twisted into a ghastly expression. His body spasmed and shuddered grotesquely once, twice and finally a third time. Within a few moments, the color fell from is freckled cheeks and he exhaled his final breath. Sightless, blue eyes stared fixed on the ceiling as he slumped down in the chair.

"My, what a mess," the soldier clucked his tongue with reproach as he retrieved his knife. Picking up the napkin, he cleaned his blade and sheathed it before he rose to his feet.

A shot rang out, the bullet suddenly lodging in his shoulder. Letting out surprised grunt, he stumbled forward, wincing at the impact. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes to collect himself before pushing up from the table.

A second bullet whizzed past his forehead, nearly clipping him. "Shit!" a woman's stunned voice said behind him. As the soldier pressed hand to his shoulder in an attempt to still the blood now dripping down his uniform, he could hear the frantic sounds of powder being poured. She'd have to flintlock reloaded soon.

Willing away the pain, he straightened himself and turned to face her. On the tall side, her round form was clad in a simple, dark muslin dress. Her red hair braided back in a bun, her pale cheeks were flushed as she focused on reloading. So much so that she didn't see him cross the room within a few long strides. By the time she looked up, he was within an arm's length. Looming over her with his muscled bulk, he stood at least a head taller than her. All terrifying, well-honed, brutal professionalism.

"You must be Frau McCready?" he asked, voice low and bored, "Caroline, I believe?" Save the way his dark eyes were slightly narrowed with admonishment, he appeared wholly impassive.

She hurled the unloaded gun at his face. It connected with his nose, cracking the bone as she fled the dining room.

Caroline was uncommonly fast. And she had the advantage of knowing the layout of her home. But the sight of her dead husband, bloodied and with a gaping hole in his chest, sent her panic clawing at her. As she finally made it to backdoor, her shaking hands yanked at its handle.

It didn't budge. Jerking at it again, it remained frozen in place. Looking down as the tugged at it a third time, she looked back at the advancing soldier in horror at seeing her marble rolling pin stuck through the handles and solidly barring it closed.

She could only let out a terrified gasp as he abruptly snatched her by the shoulders and spun her around before slamming her back into the wall. Yet she had no time to let out any sort of exclamation as he reached up cleanly snapped her neck. It was a swift kill. Certainly far more efficient than her husband's. Caroline's body dropping to the floor, her heavy clothes muffled its lifeless thud.

"Who…who are you?"

The voice startled the soldier, the little boy suddenly standing at bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. "I ask the same of you little one," he tilted his head in question. His black eyes were savage and soulless as they swept over the auburn-haired child with distant assessment. He looked to be no older than about seven or so.

Trembling, the boy stammered, "I-I am Whitney…sir. Is that," his eyes went wide at the sight of his mother. Her head _really_ shouldn't have been turned at such a strange angle. She was nearly facing the floor despite lying splayed out upon her back. "Is that my…mama, sir?" he inquired, voice high with worried question.

"Indeed it is," the soldier rapidly moved to his feet. His sheer size caused the boy to stumble backwards, though he did not run. Biting his lip as shock of pain arched through his injured shoulder, he glowered for a moment before his expression slid back to boredom. "Whitney, you said?" he murmured, glancing about the house and hearing no other sound indicating anyone else about. "That is such a nice name for such a nice young man," he distractedly added.

Expression falling to relieved, the boy quickly nodded. "Aye, sir. It be me grandfather's."

"How interesting," the other man carelessly shrugged.

"What is your name, if you please, sir?" the boy plaintively asked, nervously playing with his hands in front of him. "And…what happened to your nose? Is it...is it busted?"

Reaching up, the soldier pulled away his gloved hand to find blood trickling down his mouth. "Pardon me," he ordered, snapping out a pristine, starched white handkerchief from the inner pocket of his waistcoat. Staunching the blood flow, he then pressed two fingers to either side of his nasal cavity. A repulsive snap reverberated in the air. While he muttered out a curse, his nose was now realigned.

"Oh!" the boy winced, shirking away a bit, "That looks like it, uh, hurt?"

"Not particularly," the soldier snorted with a derisive curl of his lip. "In the meantime," he continued, "I am called Gerhard Vonstatten. Of the Landgraviate of Hesse-Kassel," he clicked his heels together formally and saluted. "Though most simply call me the Hessian."

"His-si-anne?" Whitney stumbled over the word. Expression confused, he muttered, "Hesse-Kassel? Where in heavens is that?"

"Oh, it's most certainly not heaven, I assure you," the soldier flatly retorted. "Across the sea, so I am quite far from home. Not that I shall be returning to it anytime soon."

The lad's gaze brightening, he pointed to the ship within a bottle that sat on the mantle over the fireplace. "I wish to sail the sea one day! Perhaps be the cap'n of me own ship. With my own crew and whatnot, eh?"

Shaking his head is disagreement, the soldier distantly declared. "Not all of us get our wishes. No matter how hard we try at them. For time is short, especially in your case, boy." Without warning, he hastily unsheathed his dagger and advanced. "You should not have seen me here," he casually professed as the child stood frozen in abject terror, "A pity that you are destined to be the last of your line. For now, there shall no one else to carry on such a lovely name, lad."

That Whitney's back was now to the wall made it all almost too easy. This time, there would no need for the Hessian to chase down his latest quarry.

* * *

Hidden in the long shadows cast by the storefront across the street, Haytham let out a loud exhale of dismay. The roaring fire of the McCready's home danced in his eyes, painting the night sky vicious streaks of yellow and orange. The smell of charred wood and heated brick invading his nose, he found himself coughing a bit. Combined with the snarled sound of the flames mixing with the panicked calls of the family's neighbors as they vainly attempted to form a fire line, the scene proved monstrous. If it wasn't brought under control, it would soon engulf the block. A dozen stores and townhomes would be lost, some of the buildings nearly a half-century old.

"A bloody damn shame," Benjamin Church sighed beside him. Dressed in his usual silken finery, he would've cut a dashing figure. Well, save the way his powered wig sat askew upon his head, along with his feathered tricorne. He also smelled heavily of gin. Crossing his arms and bracing himself up against the wall, he arched a languid brow, "George was a git and a half, but how unfortunate-"

"Except this was no accident," Haytham grit. Leaning back against the lamp post, his expression was grim.

"And how would you know that?" Benjamin let out a dubious chuckle.

"Regrettably, as soon as I attempted to call on him, there came screams from the house," Haytham narrowed his eyes, "Yet when I tried the front door, there was no answer and it was barred solid."

Gaze snapping back to the blaze, he took in the dozen or so more neighbors who'd come pouring out at the commotion. Well, he could at least give them some credit at being a bit more organized. An older woman in nothing but a nightgown, sleeping cap and robe started bellowing out orders, sending children to fetch buckets and lining people up next to a well to start passing water down the line. He couldn't hold back a brief grin at the old battle ax's brusque demeanor. No wonder she'd grown to such an age.

"So why didn't you break in?" Benjamin sniffed.

"Too many people about and the building was nearly half aflame by then," Haytham acknowledged with a shrug. "Considering this all occurred roughly ten minutes ago? That fire was deliberately set, it's the only explanation."

Casting him a sideways glance, Benjamin cleared his throat. "I take it that you know that McCready was skimming profits from the General Davenport's captured convoys?"

"Of course," Haytham shrugged. "I look over the books myself, every month. But it was a minimal amount, nothing to cut off his hand for. Surely, not worth killing him over. Certain loses are to be expected in times of war, especially when a man has a family to feed."

Tilting his head to the side, Benjamin murmured, "So you _didn't_ have anything to do with," he waved his hand in the direction of the flaming building, "That?"

Haytham blinked in surprise, balking, "As though I would murder a man's wife and child!"

"Just the man, eh?" Benjamin sarcastically countered.

Pushing himself off the lamppost, Haytham's dropped his hands to the sides and balled one of them into a fist. "Watch yourself, Benjamin-"

"Oh, I am, _sir,"_ Benjamin threw up his hands in surrender. Though it looked to be more out of habit versus actual fear.

Suddenly reaching out to pick a stray piece of lint from Church's collar, Haytham's voice dropped. "Do not mistake me for anything but the master of our organization, Benjamin. One who will do everything in my power to ensure it flourishes within the New World." Without warning, he suddenly twisted the other man's collar against his throat rough enough to cause him to gasp for air. "Yet, I find the slaying of women and children utterly distasteful. No matter who they are unlucky enough to marry or be born to. Remember that, Church," he swiftly unhanded him, "And never deign to accuse me of such monstrosities again," he nodded at the fire. Dark eyes narrowing, he didn't say a word as the other man struggled for breath.

Benjamin let out a hiss of retort, his hand clutching at his throat for a moment. His shaking hands straightening out his collar and readjusting his wig, he gulped, "You have made yourself quite clear."

"Now," Haytham cleared his throat, "The first thing we must do is track down General Davenport."

"W-why him?" Benjamin snorted with derision, still catching his breath.

"Because there is only one sort of man who would kill a man's wife and child without any sort of remorse," Haytham worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "We know for a fact George was skimming directly from the General's convoys." Brow creasing in thought, he added, "Not to mention, the Commander has been getting bolder as of late with his incursions outside of Fort St. Mathieu. Perhaps it is time I have a little sit down with him. And his Hessian executioner he uses to do his bidding."

"So you think he's let his rabid dog off the leash?" Benjamin rolled his eyes in disbelief. By now, he stood a few feet away from the Grandmaster. His back purposefully to the brick wall, he shirked away from Haytham's every move.

"Between McCready's ruinous end, the near deadly attack on Padre Perez and Ms. McCarthy's complaints about three of her informants ending up strangled in their beds since then," Haytham pondered, drumming his fingers against his cheek in thought, "I'd say that the Hessian has been away from his master's heels for some time."

"Regardless, George had other enemies. Not to mention, there are the reemerging foes of the Order," Benjamin wrinkled his nose in distaste. "How do you know it wasn't that bloody assassin bitch and her minions laying waste?" he sneered.

It took a rather large amount of self-control for Haytham to not throttle the other man. Then again, there was no way he knew of Connor's parentage. Letting out a long sigh, he waved away Benjamin's words. "Even at their worst, the Assassins aren't quite so messy. And as much of a nuisance as they are, they stay their blades from innocents, no matter the cost." _Or at least I should hope my own daughter doesn't allow such savagery among her ranks,_ he mused to himself. "Such is part of their asinine creed. In the meantime," his looked back at the fire across the street. Somewhat under control, it didn't appear to be spreading to the homes next door. "Come, we should head back to the inn."

"Seeing that we are out of other options," Benjamin sarcastically said, following in Haytham's wake, "We don't appear to have much choice."

Within a few moments, they were gone, melting into the shadows as the fire continued to blaze across the way.

* * *

The Yellow Goose Inn was typical of its kind. Small, slightly dingy, with poor lighting and serving mediocre food and ale, it didn't stand out in the slightest. Which made it perfect for carrying on clandestine conversations. Upstairs were the usual rooms set aside for overnight stays. Downstairs was the bar and dining area. Behind the counter was an elderly couple and their teenage son. Thankfully, the freckle-faced, blonde-haired youth had recently gone through a growth spurt. Built of solid muscle and quite tall, his mere presence kept more of the drunken customers at bay. Frequented by Patriot soldiers, the inn's prices were inordinately high due to their tendency to freely spend coin.

Originally, Haytham only planned to stay the night. But with George and his family now dead, he had bigger fish to fry. Finding a dark corner and ordering food, he and Benjamin ensured they were served without further interruption by tipping the innkeep's son a couple of pounds.

"Weren't you under house arrest?" Haytham questioned. "Or have you finally come to some agreement about acquiring those supplies for General von Steuben? If so, I'm sure it'll go a long ways towards getting back into the Congress' good graces after your little cipher to the British was intercepted," he pointed out.

Pounding an angry fist on the table that caused their plates to jump, Benjamin growled, "That letter said nothing of any troops or any pertinent information concerning the Patriots! I've told you this repeatedly!" he snapped, "And yet you and others insist I am traitor of the highest order!"

Arching a brow, Haytham help up a hand, "Peace, Benjamin. I am not insinuating anything of the sort." Pouting, Benjamin shook his head in disagreement. Leaning back in his chair, he churlishly waved for Haytham to continue. "I just simply pointed out that your fortunes appear to be reversing. What, with the fact that you are now able to apparently move about the city without a guard, hmm?" Haytham continued.

"So long as I don't leave the confines of it," Benjamin groused. "As for the supplies, as much as I wish to reiterate my innocence to the blasted Congress, they will be wasted on the likes of that lot," he threw up a hand.

"From what I understand, General von Stueben is Prussian-trained," Haytham replied with curiosity, "They are some of the most talented troops in Europe-"

"What, and you truly think that even he will prove able to drill a modicum of discipline into the Continentals?" Benjamin sniffed in disdain, "An army of drunks, backwoods farmers, fur traders and shopkeepers?" Leaning over in laughter, he slapped the table in glee. "Oh, Haytham," he wiped a tear from his eye, ignoring the other man's scoff, "Whenever did you, of all people, become the perennial optimist?"

"Again, you mistake me, Benjamin," Haytham pressed his lips together into a thin line of irritation, "Or my motivations," he slowly added. Quickly finishing off his ale, he pushed away his plate of finished food off to the side. "Now, what to do about General Davenport? Do we have any assets we may call upon within the vicinity of Fort St. Mathieu? Considering it is his base of operations, it should be the first place we consider seeking him."

Thinking for moment, Benjamin snorted, "I believe that Thomas is stationed in the general area now. Guarding convoys and what not after he was recalled back to the Connecticut militia."

"The boy is lucky was wasn't dishonorably discharged," Haytham sniffed.

"After that disaster with Washington a few months back? And how many pockets did _you _have to line to ensure he never made it to trial for attempting to kill the general after the assassin miraculously escaped the noose?" Benjamin drunkenly chortled, gesturing for another tankard. Waiting until the innkeep's son left again, he added with a snicker, "I hope the drunken little shit was worth it," he guffawed.

"Well, he's never had his loyalty to me called into question, now has he?" Haytham rejoined with dangerous glint in his eye.

"Despite that he was nearly ruined by his sloppy actions against Washington?" Benjamin smirked. "Fortune smiles on that one, so it seems."

"Above all, he is loyal to the Order first," Haytham warned, "'Tis all the supposed _fortune_ one requires."

"No matter that we've a murderous Hessian on our payroll that been loosened onto the world?" Benjamin brayed, "Which is how we find ourselves in our current situation, eh?"

"Which is why Thomas will come in handy in getting us out of it," Haytham rolled his eyes.

Honestly, Church was beginning to get rather tiresome. Between his constant complaints about the direction of the Order, his increasing drunkenness and how poorly his end of the smuggling business had gone since his arrest for treason, he was well on the road towards being far more trouble than he was worth. And that was excluding the more troubling aspects of the accusations against him. His supposed correspondence with British currently had him a practical prisoner of the city. Oh, he claimed it was only to ensure his British contacts would never doubt him, allowing him to keep hauling in his black-market goods with little trouble. But Haytham knew Church always considered himself the smartest person in the room. Alas, such hubris often caused men to make careless mistakes that could cost the Order its continued progress. Between that and his daughter's constant attempts against them through her alliance with the Assassins, Haytham knew he had little room for error.

Frankly, should the time come, he would have little regrets about eliminating the former surgeon general. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone; remove Church and convince Connor to abandon her vain pursuit, thereby replacing Church within his inner circle. No doubt, once he opened her eyes to the truth, her loyalty would have little need of questioning. How could Connor deny her own father, after all?

"Have you heard a word I've said?" Benjamin barked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Forgive me, it has been a long day," Haytham made his excuses, even as he mentally envisioned the easiest way to drive the spoon next his hand straight through Church's skull. Blood splattering all over his clothes and sending the inn into a terrified frenzy be damned...

"Clearly," Church crossed his arms as he leaned back even further in his chair. Haytham couldn't hold back a huff of retort as he continued, "What exactly can Thomas do from his commission out on the frontier?"

"No matter his predilections towards his baser pursuits, the man has always been rather brilliant at gathering information," Haytham replied.

"Yet, give Hickey a decent amount coin and he'd sell his own mother into a brothel," Church disparaged.

"Come now, he's done nothing of the sort to elicit such an opinion," Haytham shook his head in disagreement. Leaning forward and dropping his elbows to the table, he steepled his fingers. "Anyway, we need to find out just how far General Davenport has fallen from our goals. From there, we may decide the next course of action. Perhaps our relationship may be saved, perhaps not. It will all hinge on how best to eliminate the Hessian, of course."

"For all rabid animals must be put down at some point, right?" Benjamin shrugged, taking another long draught of his ale.

Nodding, Haytham continued plotting with Church. Hopefully, a solution to the current chink in the Templar's proverbial armor could be repaired. Ideally, the sooner, the better.

* * *

While she wore her usual impassive expression, Connor's heart thundered in her chest. Reflected in her wide, watery gaze, the blood red flames from the McCready's home tilted and whirled in a macabre display of color. The familiar scent of burnt wood, grey ash and the distant tinge of scorched, human flesh mingled in the air.

It nearly caused her to vomit.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself slow her breathing at the all too familiar sight of fire consuming an entire household. She shivered, though not from the biting gusts of wind licking up from the ocean to the east. Logically, she knew old memories had little to do with the scene in front of her. Yet her vision swam, her fingertips numb with mounting dread as she swallowed back bile. Thankfully, she was perched relatively far from the lip of the roof and a few doors south of the blaze. So there was little danger of falling to the cobblestones, should a fainting spell take her. Still, there were the guards to be aware of…

"Duncan," she whispered, abruptly recognizing the pattern of footsteps just to her left. Not to mention, the sound of his fingers jangling his rosary beads along his right hand.

"Miss Connor," his soft, Irish drawl filled her ears. It proved a blessed comfort, replacing the heaving, fatal crackle of the fire licking at the house. Eyes snapping open, she jerked her head in greeting. A few years ago and she would've chided him for such formality, as there was no need for him to grant her that strange, colonial title of "Miss." Now, she'd come to accept to it easily enough. He meant no insult, simply respect. Frankly, it was made all the more extraordinary considering that he now knew she was the daughter of the man who'd murdered his uncle.

Slowly moving to her feet, she held out a hand. Thankfully, it was no longer shaking. "How do you fare?"

"I may ask the same of you, Connor," he lightly said, returning her handshake. Briefly looking her over, he arched a ginger brow, "I nearly snuck up on ya, lass."

"Nearly," she swallowed, "But not quite."

"Heh," he chuckled, "Were I a younger man, I may have succeeded."

"Then let us be glad you are more an old man than I," she retorted, cracking the faintest of grins.

Glancing between her and the fire beyond at her back, Duncan gave a small, knowing shrug. "Mayhap we should travel by the streets, Connor? The patrolling soldiers are far too occupied with…that," he pointed to the flames over her shoulder, "Than two supposed civilians."

"I agree," she quickly shook her head. Lithely making her way to ground, she immediately turned in the opposite direction of the burning home.

Following in her wake, Duncan remained at her heels. After a few moments of silence, they crossed into the northern section of the city. Slipping into the backdoor of the tavern Duncan frequented, they headed to their usual table in the corner. Within a few moments, Duncan had his usual ale, Connor forgoing such for water. While she was a bit famished, her stomach was still twisted into knots.

"It's all rather horrifying, God rest their souls" Duncan let out a heavy sigh, "Especially their little one, Whitney."

Letting out a curse in her native language, Connor shook her head to clear it. To know that a child perished in the flames as well sent her reeling. "How…do we know that none of them escaped?" her voice rose a bit.

"Blending with the crowd out there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "No one saw them leave when the fire broke out. And judging by how fast the house caught, it was likely set on purpose."

"We have tracked the McCreadys all autumn." Biting back a groan, Connor angrily waved a hand, "Considering Mr. McCready's employer, this is likely the work of General Matthew Davenport, I presume?"

"Aye," Duncan solemnly frowned, dark eyes flashing with ire. "When you sent us out to scout the mystery of your missing convoys round 'bout then end of summer, it proved surprisingly easy to discern his involvement. He's become bolder and bolder in attacking Patriot outposts on the frontier."

"Clipper mentioned you were both able to infiltrate his stronghold at Fort St. Mathieu?"

"With little issue," Duncan smiled, absentmindedly running a thumb along a rosary bead. "The gent's always had a head for simple, effective planning. He's also got quite a talent for improvising when things go south."

"'Go south?'" Connor asked with a hint of confusion.

"Forgive me," Duncan briefly laughed, "It's a colloquialism meaning, 'when things go bad.'"

"Hmm," she nodded, mentally adding it to her English repertoire. "Anyway, he has undoubtedly flourished under your direction," she steadily continued. She didn't fail to notice the color that bloomed to Duncan's cheeks.

"The boy gives me far too much credit," Duncan nearly stammered, ducking his head and taking a long draught of ale.

"Somehow, I doubt that," Connor assured him.

"I see," Duncan lightly coughed. "In the meantime, you mentioned in your letter before you arrived that another one of your convoys was attacked a few weeks ago?"

"Typical Templar impudence," Connor groused, barely able to hold back a pout.

Chuckling at her expression, Duncan reached out and gave her hand a comforting pat. Pleased to see she didn't flinch, he agreed, "No doubt. Combined with the fact that Mrs. McCready was nearly there as far as trusting me with the full details of her husband's involvement with Templars, I can only assume he caught wind of the family's possible defection."

"Surely not from our end?" Connor croaked in alarm, eyebrows shooting upwards.

"Clipper and I were absolutely mum," Duncan raised a hand of reassurance.

Lips pressed together into a thin line, she closed her eyes for a moment. Hunching down and pulling her hood closer about her head, she crossed her arms in frustration before replying, "I know you both were. You have always been the paragons of silence. As has Stephane."

Duncan nodded in agreement as he took a sip of his ale, "He was our proverbial 'in' to the McCready's, considering the family frequented the inn where he works in the kitchen. Hence, how I was able to make her acquaintance," Duncan affirmed.

"Of course," Connor replied.

"I purposely wandered about the market just down the block from Stephane's. It took 'bout a month or so, but she and George eventually had me over for dinner every week or so." Withdrawing a bit, Duncan pulled a small, red, leather-bound notebook from his robes. Sliding it across the table, he smirked, "Snooping around the house every time I crossed the threshold, I was able to copy roughly three-quarters of his log book from his study."

Eyes widening, Connor reached out and snatched it. Flipping through the pages, she immediately realized that George McCready certainly valued details. Dating back a couple of years, there were logs of transports and bribes, as well as exactly how much he apparently skimmed. Surprisingly, his embezzlement was minimal. Surely not enough to murder an entire family over.

Bloody Templar brutes.

After a long while, Connor leaned forward and declared, "It looks as though my next journey shall be to the Fort, then."

"You've no wish for Clipper and me to carry this out?" he swiftly asked.

Glancing down at where the rosary was wrapped around Duncan's wrist, Connor let a grin slip to her face. "How long until he returns from Trenton on his current mission?" she casually asked.

"He's due in less than week," Duncan summarily said, twisting the beads through his fingers.

"And so you keep him in your prayers?" Connor nodded in understanding.

Staring at her for a bit, Duncan let out a pent up sigh and shifted in his seat a bit, "It is the least I may do for…a dear friend.

"We all hope for his safe return. He will acquit himself with aplomb, I am sure," Connor dipped her head in agreement. "However, between his current assignment and Stephane's present undertaking in the Carolinas to train Jacob Zenger, I need your eyes and ears attuned to the city for any new developments. Thus, I believe it is best if I pursue General Davenport on the Frontier."

"As you wish," Duncan waved. "Though as much as you believe you don't need to hear it, do be careful Connor."

"You need not worry yourself," she shyly replied, glancing away for a moment. "But," she began drumming her fingers along the aged table, "I assure you that I am grateful for your concern."

Connor's stomach finally settling, she joined Duncan for dinner. Planning her journey and reviewing their intel, the two talked deep into the night. It was nearly one in the morning by the time they retired to their rented rooms upstairs.

Soon, General Davenport would find that the Assassins were no longer mere myth, but rather, a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**General Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, September 17, 1730 – November 28, 1794** – was a Prussian general and ally of the Continental army during the Revolutionary War. One of the father's of the Continental army, he helped train and drill the Patriot troops the essentials of military drills, tactics, and disciplines. He wrote the _Revolutionary War Drill Manual,_ which became the standard for American troops until the War of 1812.

"…**after your little cipher to the British was intercepted?"** - In July 1775, Benjamin Church sent an encoded letter to a British Officer in Boston called Major Cane through a former mistress. The letter was intercepted by her lover and then sent to George Washington by September. While the letter didn't give away much pertinent information about the Continental forces, Church did state his devotion to the Crown and asked for further instructions on where to send further correspondence. By November, the Continental Congress expelled Church, removed him from his position as Surgeon General, and placed him under house arrest in Norwich, Connecticut. By May 1776, he was moved to Boston, where he remained imprisoned until 1778.


	4. The Enemy of My Enemy

_And you feel like you feelin' now,  
And doin' things just to please your crowd.  
When I love you like the way I love you,  
And I suffer, but I ain't gonna cut you 'cause,_

This ain't no place for no hero.

-Short Change Hero, The Heavy

**Late Fall, 1776: The Frontier**

It was _far_ too fucking cold out.

Sure, it was slightly too warm for the occasional snow flurry to make it to the ground. Yet the biting chill of wind still sliced through Thomas' layers of clothes. Forcing him to hunch down on his horse, he was thankful for thick, woolen, navy blue scarf wrapped about his neck. A useful gift sent over from London, by way of his youngest sister. Also, unlike the handful of gormless sods marching beside him, he was mounted. The horse taken from a redcoat officer they'd killed when they stumbled upon a British patrol a couple of days ago, it almost made the engagement worth it. Having first pick of war loot, he immediately went for the black gelding. It was, of course, the better of the two horses that remained. Such privileges were some of the few advantages he retained as the highest ranking officer of the current troop.

After the debacle with Washington, while he never went to trial, the cloud of suspicion tainted him like the stench of a day-old corpse. So Thomas wasn't surprised he'd been relieved of his duties within the General's Life Guard. In their supposed show of mercy, they allowed him to return to the Connecticut militia. At least the bloody dipshits hadn't completely stripped him of his commission. Still, the fall from a Colonel down to a Major proved a solid shit show. Then again, he'd avoided a potential appointment with the hangman. Admittedly, Haytham had always been pretty dependable at patching over these sorts of things.

But now, he was essentially banished to guard duty on the frontier. The majority of his time spent escorting convoys, he swiftly deemed it a thoroughly unpleasant undertaking. His reduced pay barely made up for being able to skim supplies. A pity he couldn't do it with this batch. Full of bandages, bear and beaver pelts, fine clothes and casks of liquor, it was easily worth over 15,000 pounds. Unfortunately, he'd heard far too many stories about their mysterious owner's reputation for keeping a persistent eye on every cent of cargo he sent overland.

"Fuckin' hell," Thomas hissed as the flurries began turning into falling snow.

Well, at least the trail cutting through this part of the woods offered some protection. Mostly due to the shade of ancient trees overhead. However, that blessing could swiftly turn into a curse. For one, the dense woods that were perfect for an ambush from redcoats. Secondly, the escort patrolled a bit too close to Fort St. Mathieu for his liking. No matter that it remained under command of a Templar. Having received word from Haytham a few days ago, he now knew that the General Davenport was suspected overstepping his bounds. So Thomas instantly realized that he could not only be dealing with a shit ton of lobsterbacks at his heels, but likely also a turncoat to the Order.

No wonder his fucking senses were set on edge. After all, he hadn't survived over twenty years in the army to not trust his intuition.

"You look peaked, _mon ami,"_ Captain Moreau drawled, riding on his grey mare next to him. His rolling French accent cutting through the frigid air, it contained his usual combination of amusement and condescension.

"Shut ya dirty trap, Cap'n. Unless you be wantin' me cut ya tongue out?" Thomas sent him a violent sneer of exasperation. Rubbing his hands together and flexing his cold fingers within his gloves, he added, "I'm a thinkin' on things. Don't much like how silent it be."

That was another thing; the litany forest noise that usually accompanied them remained eerily silent. The howl of the wolves, the twittering of the birds, the rolling grunts of moose and deer fighting and fucking. Hell, even the crackling tingle of the snow shifting and clumping together seemed to disappear. The sun beginning to dip below the horizon and painting the sky dusky mauve and azure signaled the nearing twilight as well. As perfect a time as any for the Brits to waylay the lot of them.

The rotund blonde shooting him an initial look of disbelief, Captain Moreau settled for a smirk. Giving Thomas a haphazard salute, he lazily replied, "As you wish, _Major."_ Spurring his horse forward, he rode to the front of the column. That left four men on foot near the rear with Thomas. Two more trotted ahead on their mounts, leaving the last two soldiers marching at the front. The troop totaled ten.

_That Froggy fuck,_ Thomas snapped to himself. Yet, for all of Moreau's constant disdain, he at least drilled discipline into the troop of the infantrymen. It certainly made his own job that much easier…

A volley of shots abruptly rang out, causing him the instinctively duck. Hearing the addled scream of the man marching beside him, he jerked his head downwards just in time to witness the unfortunate bastard drop his kit and clutch at his thigh. Combined with the smell of smoke wrenching at his nose and Captain Moreau's voice snarling for the men to hold the line, any idiot could tell they were under attack.

"Steady on, hold fast!" Thomas roared, unsheathing his sword and flintlock, "Take no quarter and give none, ya fiends!"

Eyes shifting and taking in the scene with ease, he could make out that the fight began forward of their column and just to left. Which meant the troop still had the solid barricade of the wagons between them and the redcoats. Admittedly, the bastards got the drop on them. But judging by the ear-splitting sound of another cluster of shots being fired, they weren't quite upon them yet. Spotting a redcoat some yards ahead of them and dashing to his right, he sniffed, led his target and squeezed the trigger. The lobcock dropped with a squeal. One of the Patriot infantryman on horseback galloped by and stabbed downwards, presumably finishing him off.

Without warning, he suddenly felt his the haunches of his mount shudder and seize beneath his thighs. The animal let out a blood curdling screech, its eyes and wild and white as it stumbled forward. Careening to the side, it nearly threw him from his saddle. But years of field experience taught him what to expect when one had his horse shot out from under him. Slipping backwards and leaping clear of the animal, he nimbly avoided being crushed as it hit the ground.

He nearly fell over the injured Patriot with a bullet in his thigh. Thankfully, the soldier had collapsed behind his downed horse. At least it gave them a proper barricade. Crouching, Thomas' hands went to the other man's sash. Roughly stripping the soldier of it, he looped around his thigh, tightening it and ignoring the soldier's screams of agony. Swiping his handkerchief from a pocket, he stuffed it into the Patriot's mouth, effectively muffling his shrieks. "Better than bleedin' out," he snorted, "Now, shut yer yap and ya may survive this." Not that he gave a shit, but their outpost was running thin on men. Fewer casualties meant more able bodies and in turn, less work for him.

His horse still letting out baleful whinnies, it nearly shattered his ankle with its panicked kicks. Jerking and trembling, its massive body heaved as it vainly tried to drag itself away. It was a lost cause, better to put the poor animal out of its misery. Doing so with a single shot, Thomas reloaded and marched closer to the front of the column.

Jesus Christ, it was plonking freezing. So much so, that when he attempted to draw his sword and run it through the lobsterback grenadier hauling ass towards him while expertly swinging a heavy ax, it jammed, nearly frozen within its sheath.

What a proper bit of shitty luck.

Thankfully, he'd just reloaded, allowing him to aim square. The bullet did its job, tearing through officer's throat. He dropped like a bag of bricks. Stooping down and stepping on the body to anchor it, Hickey yanked the corpse's sabre from its gold and leather scabbard. Making a mental note to loot it later, Thomas tested the weapon's weight. Finding it would do for now, he spun on his heel to engage another British infantryman.

Within roughly ten minutes, it was maddeningly obvious that they were surrounded. Casting his gaze about the snowy pathway and the woods lining either side of it, he let out a curse. There were outnumbered nearly two to one. Down to six men out of ten, one of them was hemmed against a tree, another soldier stumbling forward as a redcoat viciously brought down his dagger into his back. Spectacular, now his troop contained but five. The bloody Brits were quickly realizing it too, their commander bellowing orders to rush the wagons again.

Oh, bollocks, he was not in the fucking mood to breathe his last today. Definitely not in this god-forsaken, frozen nightmare of a wasteland.

"Christ on a cracker, ya tosser," Thomas muttered, snatching up a loaded pistol from a Patriot's corpse. Squinting, he fired a shot at the British soldier who was about to eviscerate the git by tree. It struck him in the lower back, causing him stumble backwards with a howl of agony. Stalking over, he ignored the Patriot boy's stammer of thanks, dropping to a knee and focusing on pistol whipping the redcoat until he gurgled up blood. A final blow, and the telltale crack of his skull splitting signaled he'd finished the job.

"Major Hickey," the green boy stammered, shakily wiping his brow and forcing his gaze away from the redcoat's bludgeoned face, "Ya…ya saved me life-"

"Best be on yer guard from 'ere on out," Thomas snarled at the little bastard, "And don't go makin' me do it a second time, you fuckin' dunce. Here," he tossed him the bloodied pistol, "Reload that and get to the wagons. Assumin' ya can manage it, ya lobcock," he derisively snorted. Palming a dagger, a pouch of gunpowder and bag of bullets from the body beneath him, he kicked the dead redcoat away.

The other four surviving members of their party, including Captain Moreau, had planted themselves behind the trio of wagons. At least they contained modicum of sense. They'd managed to retain five muskets and a couple of pistols between them. As two fired, the remaining reloaded, speedily passing a succession of weapons back and forth between them.

Shoving the Patriot soldier forward, Thomas again snapped out an order to assist the others at the wagons. Mind reeling for a solution, he raced towards their make-shift barricade. Peeking around a corner only caused him to let out a huff of irritation as bullet whizzed way too god-damned close to his nose. From what he could gather, the lobsterbacks were down to seven. Better odds, sure. But still too fucking many for his liking.

Backing up and reloading, he raised his flintlock to fire. That was until he abruptly felt the cold, steel point of a bayonet unexpectedly pressed to the base of his skull.

"Bad idea, old chum," a whiny, irritatingly refined voice sneered behind him. "Lower your weapon, you pillock," the redcoat continued, "And tell your men to do the same."

Well, shit on a stick, he'd been outflanked. He despised being out of options. Which was why contingencies were always of the utmost importance.

"Alrighty then, boy-o, don't get too trigger happy, eh?" Thomas brightly replied. Slowly leaning down, he placed his weapon on the ground and shoved it away. "You be in luck, me good man," he chortled, "For I ain't in no mood to die today. I'm fuckin' sure you ain't either, yeah? I mean, who wants to find they selves proverbially shittin' the bed out here in this god-damned wilderness?" His fingers slowly inching upwards as he moved back to his feet, they found their way to the top of his boot. Along with the trusty throwing knife sheathed within. "All I find me self carin' about nowadays be enough coin to get me by. I be a simple sort, ya see?" he purposely babbled on. "Me needs go 'n get met, so long as I can go buyin' a beer 'n a woman-"

"Shut your bloody mouth, you son of a whore," the redcoat snapped, clicking back the hammer on his musket.

Sighing, Thomas shook his head in disagreement. Still halfway crouched, he retorted, "See, that be ya soddin' problem, lobsterback. Ya always too busy insultin' 'n bitchin' at your alleged lessers to see what's right in front of your eyes."

"Sod off, you traitorous piece of shi-"

Shoving backwards and knocking the redcoat off balance, Thomas instantly spun about and stabbed upwards with lethal competence. Regrettably, he punched nothing but air.

The bloody hell?! The soldier had gone up and disappeared, now nowhere to be found. Hastily looking about, he gaped, genuinely aghast. Glancing behind himself, he saw the Patriots remained fortified behind the wagons, still firing and holding off their enemies. Evidently, not one of them seemed to notice his previous distress.

"What in the fuckin' hell-?!"

Without warning, the sounds of someone gagging and squirming above him hit his ears. Hand flying to his filched sabre, he halted, gaze shooting upwards.

Oh. Holy. _Shit._

The redcoat who evidently had him at the end of the musket but a few seconds ago now dangled in air, roughly fifteen feet from the ground. The other end of the rope hanging him was looped around a heavy branch. Staked securely into the ground and at an angle to the tree, there was no escape. Hands vainly clawing at the rope garroted about his neck, the redcoat's legs kicked and spasmed in hideous rhythm. Eyes bulging, blood poured from his mouth. But that wasn't the worst part of it. Somehow, a large, barbed, iron dart was shoved clean through him, exiting just above his sternum.

Thomas had witnessed a whole lot of gruesome antics in his time. But he'd certainly never been privy to this sort of brutal efficiency. It was positively…inventive, if a little on the side of sheer overkill.

A blur of white suddenly sailed past him, right along the canopy of trees and just out the corner of his left eye. Before he could react, it dropped to the other side of the wagons the Continentals continued to defend. Within a few seconds, the sound of steel ringing on steel drifted back towards him.

"Fancy that," he slowly said to himself. Glancing up again, he grit his teeth at the sight of the redcoat reduced to nothing but a swinging, impaled corpse. "Yeah," he sniffed, "Better go 'n check it all out," he muttered. Jogging up the road, he arched a curios brow at finding the Patriot soldiers no longer behind the wagons. Nonetheless, the sounds of fighting still carried on.

Scooting from around a wagon, he engaged a redcoat preoccupied with reloading his pistol. Running him through from behind, he kicked him off his sabre with a grunt before twisting about to duck a punch from another redcoat behind him. Smashing his forehead into the other man's, Thomas parried his enemy's dagger as he tried to gut him. Using the opening, he sliced upwards only to yank his blade down at a grisly diagonal. It carved clean through, from ribs to navel. Screaming as his guts spilled out, the redcoat's whimpers died within the matter of seconds to a final gasp.

Swiveling around, Thomas saw the white-clad ghost of the forest finish off another redcoat by drawing his dagger across his jugular. Shoving back a second redcoat's punch, he sent his foot flying into his stomach, only to brutally knee him in the chin. It sent the redcoat to the ground, a bloody mess of flailing limbs. A running kick to the head finished the job. However, the hooded figure didn't notice the final lobsterback aiming head-on at his back with his flintlock.

"Shot behind ya, mate!" he bellowed.

His apparent ally fluidly twirled about. A flash of silver flew from his hand at the same time the shot rang out. Flinching, Thomas narrowed his eyes as the two froze.

The redcoat wheezed, staggered backwards and then promptly collapsed onto the grass. Three throwing knives protruding from his chest indicated his obvious demise. Yet his bullet must have gone wide, for the other man appeared no worse for wear. Rolling his head and cracking his neck for a bit, he strolled over and began collecting his weapons. For the rest of the redcoats were dead.

After ordering Captain Moreau to direct the remaining troops to check for any injured, loot the bodies of the enemy and get the wagons ready to move, Thomas took in the hooded stranger for the first time. Strange, now that he was closer, despite the height, it was rather obvious that this was no man. Not judging by the natural sway of those hips. Nor, the touch of those tits along her front. Interesting, that.

Swaggering over, his thoughts were already cooking up all _sorts_ of ways to show cunning lass his appreciation. Preferably, with him between her legs and her desperately panting out his name. Ideally, repeatedly. "Good'en," he chuckled, nodding to the remaining Patriot soldiers as he dropped a heavy hand to her shoulder, "Ya helped saved their asses, darlin'."

Caught completely off guard as the woman rudely shoved off is hand, he let out a yap of surprise as she twisted around to face him. He'd recognize that mouth and smattering of freckles across her cheeks anywhere. Those devilishly dark eyes were also a dead giveaway. Not to mention, her patented sneer of contempt as she caught him in her stunned gaze.

"Motherfuckin' _Connor?!"_

Yep, judging by how she immediately clocked a punch to his gut that sent him doubling over, the little psychotic knew _exactly_ who he was as well.

* * *

Connor appreciated the shouted alert regarding the redcoat about to shoot her in the back. Ducking and spinning about, she sent three throwing knives into him just as he fired the shot. Thankfully, the bullet sailed right over her head. With that, the last of the British were dealt with. Her convoy protected, she had little complaint.

Gathering up her weapons, she heard someone approach just to her right. And like all colonists, the soldier saw fit to immediately touch her with a heavy hand. Why they insisted on such rudeness was beyond her. Instinctively jerking herself away from him, she was about to let out a huff of reproach. That was until she heard the tell-tale, smug accent ringing in her ears.

"Good'en," he chuckled, "Ya helped saved their asses, darlin'."

Thomas _Hickey?!_

He should've been dead! Or at the very least, locked up and awaiting trial? Yet, here he was. Smirking with his usual cockiness, his lewd gaze openly raked up and down her figure. But she had far more important concerns besides that. Such as how he was likely attempting to skim supplies from _her _convoy.

"Motherfuckin' _Connor?!"_

Her fist hit true, connecting with his solar plexus. The air knocked out of him and causing him to double over, a sweep of her leg, a boot to his shin and a steady shove to his shoulder sent him splayed to his back. Dropping and effectively straddling him, she trapped his hands beneath her knees on either side of his hips as she swiftly glanced around. They had no audience, the remaining Patriot soldiers preoccupied with the clean-up. It gave her a small window of time. Thankfully, the two of them were on the edge of carnage and decently hidden by a tall grove of grass. Moreover, the setting sun lent additional darkness.

"Aye, the bitch be back, I see," Hickey wheezed beneath her, eyes squeezed tight for a moment while he gulped down a few ragged breaths. "What, huntin' men finally bore ya to bits? Ya finally decide to take yer rightful place, 'ere in the wild 'n layin' with a wolf pack out here on the Frontier? _Figures-_"

"I should have killed you when I had the chance!" Connor growled, grinding her teeth.

"Last I checked, it be a criminal offense to strike an officer of the Continentals, sweetheart," he casually retorted.

"Yet, dead men tell no tales," she retorted, the snap of her hidden blade reverberating in the air and rather near his ear.

"Fuck _you!"_ he spat, eyes narrowed to slits, "I ain't done nothin' wrong!"

"Except you are a Templar," she snarled, leaning over him and solidly bracing her forearm against his throat. Her words dancing along his chin, he could feel her hiss, "And likely stealing supplies from _my _supply train!"

"The hell ya getting' yer knickers in a twist for, girl?!" Hickey sneered. "Besides, that convoy be holdin' a king's ransom worth 'o goods. How in the God's name did ya manage to get yer hands on all that precious loot?!"

"That is none of your concern!" she snorted. "Why are you escorting my goods?"

"'Cause I be followin' _orders_ from me army superiors, princess!" he bellowed, jerking his hips upwards in a vain attempt to dislodge her. Rewarded with a slash of pain ricocheting up his arms as she purposely dug her knees into his wrists again, he stilled, even as he jeered. "I ain't laid a soddin' finger on yer blasted supplies! And it ain't like I picked _your _specific convoy-"

"A likely tale-"

"It be the _only _tale!" he cut her off, "So ya can get right the fuck ov'er yer self already, ya dodgy bint!"

Curling her lip in derision, she bit, "Do you truly think me so dense? That it is merely sheer coincidence _your_ patrol happens to be but a dozen or so miles from Fort. St. Mathieu?"

"Who said jack shit 'bout the Fort?" he rejoined, "And so what if I got me a mission there? Them redcoats been killin' me men left 'n right all damned summer 'n through the fall. Me commander be aimin' to take it right soon-"

"Thereby allowing you to stab him in the back and betray the Patriots to the British?" she archly questioned, blade now pressed against his chin. "Typical Templar greed and deceit," she uttered.

He couldn't hold back a braying laugh at her words, in spite nearly having his throat slit open by the proximity of her blade. This naïve, little chit…"Look 'ere, ya moronic, 'lil-"

"Major Hickey!" one of the Patriots called out, some yards away from them, "'Allo, Major? Jesus, mate, where the hell is he-"

It proved the distraction he needed, her head whipping towards the direction of noise. Her shifting weight allowed him jerk his shoulder upwards while shoving his knee beneath her bottom. She faltered and slipped forward, dropping flush on top of him. One of her knees shifted as well, freeing his wrist. Wrenching his arm from his side, his large palm shoved her head away while scrambling to grab at her neck. While she was fast, it was a hair's breath too slow to spring to her feet. Yet, she didn't allow his attempts to choke her. Throwing herself to the side, she snatched out and grabbed him by the shoulders. Since he was already in the process of squirming out from under her, the re-dispersal of their combined mass only caused them to suddenly go careening down the hill.

Exchanging slaps, scratching, punching, legs flailing, and getting in an occasional elbow here and there, they fought for dominance as they rolled. Her skills allowed her to rake her nails along his neck, get in a satisfying jab to his ribs, and repeatedly kick her boot into his calf. Unfortunately, she was forced to sheathe her hidden blade due to the very real danger of potentially stabbing herself as they tumbled. He proved able to smack her along the forehead, twist one of her wrists behind her head and shove a knee in between her thighs. The dagger sheathed next to his sword flew from his belt sometime during their sparring, his other dagger from his boot gone missing in the earlier clash with the redcoats.

Their trip down the slope came to a painful end when they struck the large, moss covered trunk of a tree with a sharp thud. While his larger form took the brunt of the hit, it knocked the wind out of them both. Regrettably, he landed on top. Connor bit back a groan of irritation at finding his bulk nearly smothering her. The burly oaf had to have at least two to three stone of weight on her frame.

No matter; she may be a woman and naturally smaller and lighter, but Achilles never allowed such to be perceived as a weakness. He'd drilled into her head that she contained speed, stealth and most importantly, society's perpetual underestimation to her advantage. As well as the traditions of her village, which held women in far higher esteem than these purportedly "civilized" colonists. Most of the latter expected her to immediately surrender. A pity, as it always led to their deaths whenever they crossed her.

For example, Hickey currently had her wrists locked above her head in his hands and his dead weight limiting her movement. Nevertheless, his head rested nearly on top of hers, his warm breath grazing her cheek. She could tell from his stuttering rasps and the labored heave of his chest that he was tiring of their fisticuffs. Especially so soon after the pressing skirmish with the redcoats. So she willed herself to relax beneath him. As she expected, he was caught off guard by the fight supposedly leaving her. Feeling his grip on her wrists loosen slightly and him shift a bit, she prepared herself.

"Funny that," he drawled against her ear, "Much as I enjoy havin' a nice handle on me women, I'm a thinkin' I prefer ya on top, she-wolf."

"A pity, as I prefer you_ dead,"_ she panted, collecting herself.

He tiredly snickered, nose now resting along her hairline as he struggled to catch his breath, "Oh, ya wouldn't be sayin' that if you knew me any better, love. I got all _sorts _'o useful skills."

"Somehow, I highly doubt that."

Letting out a long sigh, he rolled his eyes and sat back on his haunches. It caused him to slacken his hold even more. "Ya know what, dearie?" his gaze met hers, expression sliding to bizarrely thoughtful for a quick second, "Ya always lookin' for a means to go killin' folks 'afore ya know their whole story-"

"As though _you_ are worth saving." Lifting her chin in defiance, she didn't bother to drop the disdain from her voice, "Obviously, in spite of your second chance, you have remained with your wretched Order. Your actions speak volumes."

"All that righteous rage bouncin' around all up in ya," he clucked his tongue, like a parent scolding a particularly troublesome child, "My, my, it' gotta be eatin' away at ya innards-"

Reeling back, she bashed the top of her forehead into his. Sure, it set off an explosion of light behind her eyes at the painful impact with his skull. But years of training let her follow it up with an instinctive knee to the groin. It had its desired effect, sending him howling and rolling off of her. Stumbling to her knees, she kicked away his sabre as she shakily unsheathed her sword. Regardless of her vision spotting, she pressed the point of it to his chest. "You have ten seconds to redeem yourself," she ordered.

Casting her a look of loathing and hands still protecting his crotch, he snapped, "Simple; we both want that pissant, General Davenport, deader than a doornail."

"I do not believe you-"

"So why in the _fuck_ would I slaughter his men after he attacked your god-damned convoy, ya fussock?!" he demanded. "All ya gotta do is check their gorgets to see that they be part 'o the General's troops."

Rubbing at her throbbing head, she shrugged, "Because you Templars aim to control both sides of the conflict." Pressing her sword into his chest even harder, she warned, "Do not take me for a fool, Hickey."

"Ya rotten, murderous 'lil _savage!"_ he barked, mouth twisted into a dangerous snarl and color staining his pale cheeks. "Seeing as yer such a right barmy _arsehole_, here then," he reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat. Hearing the click of a pistol, he looked up to find her aiming one at his head. At least she'd sheathed her sword for the moment. Although her stony expression did absolutely zero to put him at any sort of ease. "It ain't no weapon, ya mangy git," he snit, slowly pulling out a heavy, half-folded envelope and tossing it up to her.

Snatching it out of the air, she kept her pistol trained on him as she opened it with one hand. Speechless at finding it from her father, she ignored the locket that fell out of the envelope and landed at her feet. Not only did the missive detail his suspicions about the fire that claimed the McCready's home over a fortnight ago, he relayed specific orders to Hickey to infiltrate the Fort and scout it out. There was also note of the family's suspected murderer. One Gerhard Vonstatten or "The Hessian," as they called him. While it did not explicitly state the General's life was forfeit, her father seemed to have no qualms should the Templar fall to a blade. Yet the Hessian wasn't privy to any sort of mercy. Hickey was unequivocally ordered to eliminate him.

As far as Connor was concerned, the world would not miss such a monster. Or his apparent master.

Thomas used her silent astonishment to quickly roll away from her. While he was able to move to his feet, he was still kept at bay as she re-leveled her flintlock at him.

"Well," she slowly began, stooping down and picking up the locket. Flicking it open revealed an exquisitely detailed miniature of a dark-haired man with a goatee and dressed in the livery of a high-ranking, British officer. _Matthew Davenport, likely, _she mused, _So that Hickey may know his target. _"This proves a new…development."

"No _shit_, ya bugger!" he heatedly crossed his arms. Kicking over his tricorne to him, Connor gestured for him to pick it up. "So," he groused, dusting it off, "I take it this means ya ain't gonna kill me 'en?"

Slitting her eyes at him, she intoned, "For now, no."

"So how come ya ain't put away that damned pistol, already?" he waved at her, popping his hat back upon his head and adjusting it to the side at a rakish angle.

"No matter that our goals align for now, you have not given me a reason to trust you," she replied, even as she tossed him back the locket.

"Point taken," he sniffed, shoving it into his pocket. "Still, I saved yer life when I warned ya of that redcoat 'bout to shoot ya back there."

"You had no idea who I was at the time."

Cocking his head to the side, he let out a mirthless chuckle, "Ya be a sly one, girl."

"No more than you, _old man,"_ she shot right back.

"Hey now," he held up a hand in surrender, "I ain't exactly Father Time, ya milksop. I got 'round bout 37 years to me."

"Far more ancient than my twenty or so," she huffed. Damn, he assumed she was older. Mostly on account of her humorless disposition and that steady, constantly irked countenance. Not to mention, her relentless commitment to her silly little Brotherhood. Though when he really looked at her, her face was clear of any sort of lines of age. Combined with her speed and agility, she likely wasn't lying.

"So," he slowly began, "Wot's the plan then? How abouts the good 'ole concept that 'the enemy of my enemy be my friend?' At least until we kill our mutual enemy, yeah?"

It took far too long for her uncock the hammer of her flintlock. And even as she shoved it back into her holster, she unsheathed her sword again. However, she held it at her side, tapping the glinting, silver blade against her leg rather than pointing it directly at him. Expression pulled in concentration, she muttered to herself in what he could only assume was the language of her people. Finally, she nodded in agreement. "It seems we find ourselves in alignment. So long as you make no attempt to kill me," her gaze flashed in warning, "I will not harm you. At least not until we finish tracking the general and his homicidal Hessian."

Spitting on his hand and holding it out to shake, Hickey almost laughed at her look of revulsion at his action. "Usually, gents be shakin' on such an agreement," he clarified, extending his arm further. She didn't offer hand in exchange, her continued silence wholly unsettling. "Alrighty then," he withdrew with a huff, "I'll take into account that ya ain't no gent, I guess," he shrugged.

Rocking back on her heels, she sheathed her sword and shoved her hand into one of the deerskin pouches along her belt. He felt rather silly as he braced, only for her to produce a single eagle feather in her hand. Holding it out, she wordlessly nodded for him to take it.

Snatching it from her, he held it up to the dusky sunlight. Its colors sparkled and bounced along its fine grains of plume. "Eh?" he asked in confusion, "Wot's this 'en, poppet?"

"Among my people, it is the sign of a binding agreement," she solemnly said. "When we have completed our mission, I expect its return, signaling an end to our truce. I believe that it is rather more…hygienic than your methods," her gaze snapped to his hand for a moment. "Hence, we are allies, for you have taken it freely of me."

"I, uh, see," he slowly said. For some reason he had no desire to dwell on, he found himself carefully tucking it into the inner pocket of his waistcoat. No matter how silly he inexplicably felt as she watched his every move.

Gesturing for her to follow, she silently fell in line behind him back to the other men. Considering who she dealt with, she wasn't exactly surprised at his lie to Captain Moreau as to why he would be leaving the remaining soldiers in his hands. "Ya ain't dead, 'n the lady requests an escort back to her family," Hickey mounted one of the dead redcoat's horses. More spoils of war, of course. Ignoring the Captain's dazed expression that their ally turned out to be a woman, Hickey drawled, "It be takin' us 'bout a week to cross the Frontier at this time 'o the season. I'll meet ya back at the outpost at me return. Dismissed," he lazily saluted. None the wiser, Captain Moreau did as told.

Astounded to see Connor looting the dead for supplies before she mounted her white mare, Hickey let out a low chortle. Seemed the little prat wasn't so high and mighty after all. Hopefully, it'd be enough to keep them from killing each over the next few days.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Gorget** – The crescent-shaped, metal neck chain that was part of most European officers' uniforms, up until around the mid-19th century.

**"The burly oaf had to have around two to three stone of weight on her"** – A stone is a British form of measurement that equals around 14 pounds.

As canon Connor is a lot taller and heavier than most men in-game, Fem!Connor is taller and heavier than most women of the era, around 5'5" or so. She has the competent body of an athlete, a bit curvy but mostly muscular and with an average bust line. Basically, light enough to free-run without a problem, but strong enough to stab a man clean through with a sword. Or stop him dead with a few hits from her heavy weapon. Meanwhile, Thomas Hickey looks pretty burly. Not to mention, he's been a soldier since 1752, so he'd know to handle himself in combat. I'd put him around 6'0" and about 170 pounds. So weighing about three stone more than Connor means he's around 28 to 42 pounds heavier than her.


	5. Is My Friend

By Connor's count, it was a few days after the First of November. Meaning the air was appropriately chilly, the sky above deep grey and constantly overcast. While it was still too warm to snow during the day, the flurries drifted down beginning at dusk and continued into evening. Occasionally, it would even sleet. Thankfully, the cold snap always broke by around the 10th hour of the morning or so. Thoroughly used to the brisk elements, she waved off the dampness that seemed to cling to her clothes and mare. Purchased over the last month or so in New York, her livery was mostly new and fitted for the colder season. She'd also newly skinned the soft, leather wrappings about her legs. In her element out here in the untamed wild, she welcomed the chance of pace from working in town.

However, Hickey was a city man through and through. Bound his navy blue, uniform frock coat, he kept the ends of his sister's scarf wrapped about his chest beneath it. His long johns beneath his woolen stockings and breeches, which were securely tucked into his boots, added an extra layer of warmth. He also wore an additional tunic beneath his ruffled shirt, his cravat wrapped tightly about his neck and beneath his scarf. Yet he rarely complained, save a few choice, expletive-ladden remarks upon waking up to the freezing air in the mornings and bundling down at night. His constantly full flask proved enough to keep him company. Mostly due to Connor maintaining her usual laconic demeanor as they rode.

They arrived to Fort St. Mathieu within four days. Thankfully, the snowfall from last night created plenty of cover, the icy white drifts piled high around the ramparts. Combined with the heavily forested perimeter, they were able to leave their mounts behind and hike about a quarter mile to the outer walls without being spotted. The stronghold covered some acres, one of the largest along the northwestern frontier. Nonetheless, parts of it were blackened and slightly crumbling. Per Thomas, owning to the Continentals' numerous attempts to lay siege to it the past Spring. While that would work their advantage, the British were on high alert. Carefully skirting the edges of the citadel to visually gauge the number of redcoats within, they found far more men stationed there than either of them expected.

Hickey rolled his eyes as Connor pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for his silence as they crept into a tall grove of trees on the eastern border of the fort. Crouching, Connor was then surprised to see Thomas swiftly and silently point to two guards patrolling with a black dog, approximately fifty yards to their left. Though she easily saw them, she didn't realize he'd done so as well. Her face must have made it rather obvious, considering the smug, toothy grin he shot her.

Relaying her plan to go in alone and capture their target, Connor shook her head as he derisively whispered back various disagreements. Not that she was shocked at his immediate rebuttal of her plan. "You be outta ya bloody mind, girl!" he jeered, leaning back on his haunches and dropping a hand to her forearm.

"I suggest you remove your touch from my person, _Hickey."_

"For the fuckin' love of Christ, I ain't tryin' to molest your bloody arm!" he snorted, withdrawing from her. "So ya best be sheathin' that dagger back on ya belt. I'm just tryin' to, I don't know, keepin' ya from committin' suicide? I mean, I know it must be absolute _bollocks_ bein' an Assassin 'n wot not-"

"Watch yourself," her mouth twisted with reproach.

"Just takin' the piss-"

"What…what does that even mean?" her nose scrunched in confusion, "I would think you contain the sense enough to relieve yourself before we arrived at the Fort!"

Hickey slapped a hand over his mouth to smother his guffaw. Mostly on account of keeping as quiet as possible to avoid alerting the patrol. Then again her bewildered expression at his turn of phrase was nearly worth it. Anything to see that constant look of annoyance or weariness drop from her face. "It means I just be makin' a jest, sweetheart," he reassured her. A doubtful arch of her brow and she muttered it a couple of times, as though committing it to memory. Distractedly waving for him to continue, she heard him say, "Still, there be no way in hell ya can _destroy an entire fort _all by ya lonesome."

"Fort Hill in Boston and Fort Wolcott on Goat Island proved little trouble," she shrugged, looking upwards and already beginning to calculate the shortest distance from the fortification's outer wall via the tree line. Hand moving to her back, her fingertips brushed the feathers of her arrows. Excellent, her quiver was full. Her bag of rope darts also weighed solidly comfortable on her hip as well.

Mouth dropping open at her casual revelation, he almost stammered, "Wait one god-damned minute…that was _YOU?!"_ When she gave him a curt nod of affirmation, Thomas didn't know whether to prepare himself for a knife in the chest or to let out a cackle of bizarre amusement at the first real smile she flashed him upon his disbelief. Well fancy that, she appeared a right lovely lass when she bothered to wipe that near-perpetual scowl from her face.

Huh, who knew?

He'd heard rumors of the two forts' infiltration by a single man. Well, Fort Hill supposedly fell into the hands of the Continentals due to some madman who blew up the powder stores, killed a shit-ton of redcoats and then promptly executed its ranking officer. Fort Wolcott was attacked by a random volley of fire from some alleged ghost ship. By the time the Continentals arrived to claim it, the majority of the redcoats were dead. The couple of dozen terrified survivors kept babbling on and on about some devil spirit that also boldly slaughtered their commander. Whatever occurred, half the citadel was blown to smithereens. Of course, no one believed the Brits and their absurd tales.

So evidently, the poppet delivered not one, but two forts over to the Continentals. Anyone else, and he'd call them a bald-faced liar. But the 'lil she-wolf was far too guileless spin such a tale. He'd already witnessed her escape her own execution. She'd also mowed down a handful of men attacking her convoy a few days ago, without so much as flinching or breaking a sweat. Haytham also suspected her Brotherhood of orchestrating the deaths of Pitcarn and Johnson.

William Johnson. One of a few men who'd ever bothered to give two shits about him.

Stealing a look at where she remained crouched next to him in the snowy bushes providing cover, Thomas narrowed his eyes. No, it had to be impossible; a couple of years ago, she had but 18 years to her. Not to mention, they hadn't heard a whiff of the Assassins until she popped up in New York and ruined his counterfeiting operation. And that disaster occurred only around five months ago. Besides, William sought to protect her tribes. Mostly on account on his consort, the lovely Miss Molly Brandt. A couple of days ago, when he drunkenly commented out loud that Connor's looks proved darker than most colonists', she warily explained to him she was of the Mohawks. Apparently, the same as Molly (admittedly, the girl only revealed such when he repeatedly exclaimed he didn't give a flying fuck about what be in her bloodline. So long as she didn't knife him in the face or anything of that sort). So why in the hell would she go killing her best hope to keep her people's land away from the colonists?

"Hickey?" she repeated a third time, waving her hand in front of his face. A few inches closer, and it'd be considered a slap.

"Wot?!" he snapped, shoving her away and mind reeling back to the present.

"Stay here and wait for my return," she ordered, beginning to rise from the ground.

She nearly broke his wrist when she instinctively twisted away from where he grabbed her by the arm. "Ain't no need for ya to do this by yourself-"

"Somehow, I highly doubt you particularly care if I should survive or perish," she drawled.

"You be right; I don't generally give a flyin' fuck 'bout how ya go livin' out your days," he shrugged. Ignoring her snort of aggravation, he continued, "But if it means that I up me chances of survivin' this? Yeah, it be best for _me_ if ya don't go endin' up a corpse."

"How _kind_ of you," she sarcastically replied, firmly shaking off his grip.

"Look 'ere, I ain't so full 'o it to realize that two heads be better 'n one in this endeavor," he shot back. "So yeah, I prefer ya alive. At least while I still got that feather 'o yours that be signalin' our 'lil truce," he patted his breast pocket.

"Was I not clear when I relayed that I have done this sort of thing before?" she frowned, jerking her head in the direction of the stronghold.

"That was just layin' siege 'n kilin' whoever was fuckin' stupid 'nough to go gettin' in ya way," he retorted with derision. "This time, we be needin' information. Directly from the General's quarters, no less."

"Or, I drive him out by sabotaging the fort," she reiterated, leaning back on her knees and drumming her fingers along her thigh. "We capture him, question him concerning the Hessian's whereabouts and then his life is forfeit."

Rolling his eyes, he let out a huff of disagreement. "Why ya always gotta be so damned uncompromisin', woman?"

"It proves the best means to obtain what is required," she instantly replied, dark eyes flashing in challenge. Counting off on her fingers, she continued, "The General is no longer a threat, we are now on the trail of the Hessian and the Fort will now be in the hands of the Patriots. Three goals achieved-"

"By the messiest means possible, poppet," Thomas chortled.

"Thus far, I have heard no hint of an alternate suggestion from _you,"_ she hummed.

"'Cause ya refuse to let me get in a word edge-"

"I most certainly have not!"

"…wise," he finished. "Aaaaand there ya go cuttin' me off again, love," he chuckled.

Opening her mouth to disagree, she snapped it shut at realizing, much to her chagrin, he was correct. Dropping her head and gritting her teeth, it took her a few moments to collect herself. _"Fine,"_ she sniffed, looking up at him again, "What do you propose then, Hickey?"

"Simple," he shrugged. "Ya go 'n kill a soldier 'bout me size on patrol. I swipe his uniform and escort ya in as a supposed prisoner of war. Presto-bingo, we be in beyond the walls, and without no one none the wiser. Considerin' I was stationed here before the rebellion for a couple 'o years or so, I know the layout pretty damn well. Includin' where the general's quarters be. So we ain't gotta rush in all blind and wot not."

Furrowing her brow, her eyes darted to the side for a moment. "That is," she slowly replied, "That is…surprisingly straightforward. So much so, that I believe it may work without much interruption."

"Aye!" he smirked. "Once we get what we need, ya can go blowin' up whatever ya want. Hell, set the whole place afire 'n slaughter as many redcoats as ya need to get all that creepy-ass bloodlust outta ya veins. Frankly, I don't give a shit. So long as we both get outta here alive, with our limbs intact and 'nough info to go killin' the General and his 'lil demon lapdog."

She was admittedly glad he didn't spit on his hand as they shook in agreement with his plan.

* * *

Connor silently strangled a redcoat with one of her snares to ensure no blood would sully his uniform. Hence, Thomas quickly changed into it, allowing them to pass beyond the gates of the citadel unhindered. The redcoats barely spared them a glance, save to jeer at the supposed prisoner.

She had to admit she appeared very much the part of the perturbed captive. She'd rubbed dirt along her face and bared her teeth at any redcoat who dared attempt looking too closely beneath her hood. Her hands were also supposedly bound behind her back. While Hickey's musket wasn't loaded, the bayonet was fixed and he prodded her forward along her back. A couple of times, so roughly that it caused her to stumble. He also contained a plethora of colorful insults, which he liberally used whenever a redcoat came within range. It helped with the pretense that he absolutely couldn't _wait_ to get her down to the dungeons to do with her as he pleased. A disturbing thought, undoubtedly. But they had a mission to compete.

Unfortunately, as he marched her in the direction of the prison, Hickey promptly learned through the chatter of the fort that General Davenport was out on the frontier. At least it made their mission potentially easier. Especially as they wandered towards the center of the stronghold. A large, two-story, white bricked building with blue shutters and a red shingled roof housed the officer's quarters. Pressed up against the parapets, it granted the ranking troops a 360 degree view of the entire citadel. It also allowed them to immediately jump to the ramparts where the cannons pointed out and across the forest, in case of an incursion by the Patriots.

Untying Connor, Thomas haphazardly shoved her into a hay chart sitting along the wall of the officer's quarters. Ignoring her murderously exasperated look over her shoulder when his hand "accidently" smacked her behind as he cheekily wished her luck, he sauntered off. Of course, he promptly started up a game of dice with a group of soldiers some feet from the cart. They all loitered closest to the back entrance of the building.

Peeking out from the hay, Connor took in the group of gambling redcoats. Hickey certainly threw himself into keeping up the momentum of the game. Hooting, hollering and tossing out insults to get the men to make larger bets, within minutes he had their attention fully directed away from catching her in their line of sight. Well, that certainly lent a solid bit of assistance. Lithely jumping out of the cart, she snuck over to the door. Using her lock pick, she jimmied it open in a matter of seconds and ducked inside. _Second floor, last door on the right,_ she mused on Hickey's instructions. Arriving at her destination, she listened for anyone inside. Hearing nothing, she picked the lock and darted inside.

The General's lodgings included two large rooms, one set aside for his study, the other for sleeping. The vaulted, sloped ceiling was mostly unfinished, its thick, wooden beams clearly visible. Braced against the window sat his bulky, cherry wood desk. Outside of a few scattered pieces of parchment, a quill sitting next to them and a couple of glass jars of ink, it was bare. In fact the entire room was absent of any personal effects. Connor found it rather eerie.

She wasn't surprised that the desk was locked. No matter, for she had her lock picks. Breaking into first two drawers revealed nothing, save the personal files of the fort's personnel. In fact, none of the drawers held anything of importance. Spinning around and examining the bookshelf didn't do much better. Not even shaking out the books yielded anything in between their pages.

Biting her lip, she retreated to the bedroom. The walls painted a soft, light green, their crown molding was brilliant white, the floor of dark hardwood. The far corner of the room contained a vanity and changing screen. Next to it sat a four-poster bed. Large, solid and comfortable, it was piled with a handful of feather-stuffed pillows. The dark blue curtains strung between the bed posts matched the light blue sheets. Thankfully, the curtains were flung open, revealing no one within. At its foot and above the fireplace was mounted a large oil painting of the General himself. Dressed in full military regalia, he clutched a rod of rule in one hand and a golden globe in the other. His dark eyes stared out at her, proud and vain. Save the window, covering the rest of the wall were framed maps from various parts of the world. She recognized a few of them from her own travels aboard the _Aquila._ Next to where she stood was a tall bookshelf that reached the ceiling. Filled with books and scrolls, its bookends were an array of knickknacks: large, pale colored seashells, an archaic looking pistol, a small clock, a heavy mug upon a saucer and a model ship within a bottle.

Frowning at all she would have to search, Connor began her deed in earnest. Ten minutes later, all she'd stumbled upon was footlocker under the bed.

Without warning, the door in the other room unexpectedly creaked open. _Not a good sign,_ she furiously mused, slamming the footlocker closed and kicking it back under the bed. Great, now she had to find a good hiding spot...

* * *

Thomas frowned as he silently stepped into the general's quarters. The place looked as though a hurricane hit it. The desk drawers were yanked out, a handful of quills lay broken on the floor, the books in the shelves haphazardly tossed everywhere and opened. "Bloomin' moron," he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He thought the daft chit would at least have the wherewithal to know how to properly search a room. The first rule? Always leave everything looking _exactly_ as it was before. Otherwise, why alert the target that you knew precisely what he's up to?

Crossing the threshold into the bedroom, he let out a litany of curses. This area looked even worse. The blankets and sheets were yanked from the bed, the bookshelf in utter disarray. The general's portrait mounted backwards and crooked on the wall, its was back slashed through. The wardrobe next to the bed was open, the clothes tossed to the floor and bottom drawers completely removed. He could even make out the scrape marks in the dust along the floor where something had obviously been quickly dragged from under the bed.

"Connor, ya daft bugger!" he muttered to himself.

"Yes?" she murmured behind him, noiselessly dropping down to the floorboards.

Completely caught off guard, he swung his musket around and cocked back the hammer, only to have her lash out and smack him across the face hard enough for his grip to loosen on his weapon. While he effortlessly blocked her foot to his stomach with his forearm, he didn't expect her to duck to the floor and send a spin kick to his thigh. Lurching, he dropped the musket with holler of reproach. Yet it never hit the ground, for she snatched it out of the air and spun it about in her hands in order to use its stock as a modified club.

"Oh!" she exclaimed mid-strike, purposely adjusting her swing so it went wide and didn't connect, "It is you! I-"

_"Do ya EVER fuckin' THINK 'AFORE YA BE FUCKIN' HITTIN'?!"_ he bellowed, slapping away her hand of assistance as he clutched at his thigh. "Ya _balmy bitch!"_

"I did not realize it was you!" she huffed, dropping the musket and sending it clattering to the floor.

"Yeah?! 'Cause all the other mangy gits up in this 'ere fort _know yer name?!"_

"That…is a valid point-"

"No shit!" he hissed. "Christ!" he brought a hand to his face, "Ya almost broke me fuckin' nose…_again!"_

Cocking her head to the side, she quickly declared, "Forgive me. I never meant any harm-"

"Which be why ya was 'bout to go knockin' me block off, ya blighter?!" he straightened up, furiously pointing at the musket. "Mother-fuckin' Connor be strikin' again!" her sarcastically threw up his hands in surrender.

She shrugged, "You should have identified yourself-"

"How could I if you were _nowhere to be fuckin' found?!"_ he barked. Straightening out his crimson coat, he gingerly poked at his cheek. Thankfully, it was only blooming into a bruise rather than a fractured bone. The little wretch hit nearly as hard as a man, after all. "And where in the bloody hell was ya hidin' anyways?" he snapped. He looked above him as she mutely pointed upwards. Apparently, she had plenty of time to scramble up the walls and conceal herself in the rafters before he came in.

"For the love 'o fuckin' God!" he balled his fists together at his sides, "Just…ugh. Just learn to _think_ 'afore ya strike, woman!"

"I will take your concerns into account," she sniffed.

Turning her back to him as he rolled his eyes and slurred more curses, she dropped to her knees and pulled out the footlocker again. Crossing his arms and leaning against a bedpost, he watched with increasing annoyance as she scanned the various letters and scrolls only to throw them over her shoulder. "Ya know," he sneered, snatching up his musket from the floor, "Ya could at a bare fuckin' minimum go _attemptin'_ to make it look like ya ain't tossin' a room."

"Tossing?" she questioned, barely paying attention to him as she continued.

"Burglarin'. Stealin'. Combin' through someone else's shit," his mouth twisted in derision. "I mean, god-damn, could you _be_ any more obvious that this blimey git's quarters just got searched? I thought the whole point of ya silly-arse Assassins be to go workin' in the shadows 'n whatnot. You be as bloody obvious as a dolled up whore in the middle 'o a cockfight!"

Letting out a long sigh of impatience, Connor paused and looked over her shoulder. "What exactly should I have done better, considering your supposed expertise?" she flippantly asked.

"How 'bout bein' a bit more meticulous?" he waved about. "Mayhaps, I don't know, not fuckin' _wreckin'_ the place?"

"There is no time," she retorted, tossing another letter away.

"It be better than leavin' traces of ya stench all ov'er-"

"I would prefer not to get caught," she interrupted, "Especially since we do not have any idea when Davenport will return…and what is this?" Finishing her scan of a letter bound together in a packet with a red ribbon, she grinned. Quickly reading the remaining ones, she jumped to her feet and stuffed them in the inner pocket of her coat.

"Hey now, wot's this then?" Thomas' eyebrows shot up. Shoving himself off the bedpost, he said, "We be partners for now, so ya better get to tellin' me wot's goin' on."

"Are you familiar with an Eleanor Mallow?" Connor questioned, kicking the footlocker back under the bed. Wiping her gloved hands on her pants to clear the dust, she began heading towards the door.

Smirking, Thomas drawled, "Fuck yeah, I be. She be a Templar. And the General's notoriously pretty-ass daughter. Got quite the mouth on 'er too-"

"Different surname?"

"It be confusin' folks so they don't be knowing she 'n her daddy's ties to each other," he sniffed, "Wot of it?"

"Per a letter received from her roughly a month ago, she is the one who passed on the General's orders to the Hessian," Connor solemnly replied.

"Really now?" Thomas doubtfully replied. "That be a real fuckin' laugh, considerin' that she never be actin' as a mere courier no more. Not since she be a kid."

Connor curled her lip, snorting, "You people use _children_ as couriers?"

"Hey now, not me," Thomas waved away her disdain, "Just 'ole Davenport. He be…a strict sort with the girl. Me understandin' be she be quite the 'lil brat growin' up. With 'ole pop being all military 'n wot not, he decided to go teachin' her some discipline."

"Typical," Connor spat with a scowl.

_"Anyways,_ Ellie's daddy be trustin' 'er 'nough to go givin' her missions to complete on her own. For years now."

"Hmm," Connor pondered. "It seems, judging by their correspondence," she patted her jacket where she'd put the letters, "Their last communication was a fortnight ago. He speaks of a new target, in Boston."

"Who?"

"That is the problem," Connor worried her lower lip with her teeth, "He does not explicitly state it. We should go," she quickly said, ears perking up at the sound of soldiers patrolling about outside.

"Gimme a second," he demanded. He wanted to get one last look at the room. Mostly to steal anything worth a few pounds.

"Make it swift," she ordered, already at the front door.

Wandering towards the fireplace, Thomas suddenly stopped in front of the metal grate intended to shield the hottest part of the flames from the room. _The bloody hell?_ he thought to himself.

"What?" Connor asked, poking her head back into the doorway, "Why are you just standing there? It is imperative that we leave-"

"Shut-up," he rejoined, waving a dismissive hand at her. Ignoring her expression of censure and backtracking, he couldn't help the satisfied grin that came to his face. For one of the long floorboards sprung back a bit too easily.

Dropping to his knees, he didn't bother hold back a smirk at the General's rather ingenious ploy. For most, the loose plank would be undetectable to a casual observer. And even then, that was assuming that they'd ever see it, a near impossibility since the bucket holding the fire poker and other tools sat over it. Forced to use his dagger, it took some time to pry the loose wooden plank from the hardwood floor. Removing it revealed a small space, only about six by six inches and four inches deep.

"Jackpot!" he crowed, pulling out a stack of folded letters.

Not only did they contain a list of crossed out names, it also included the McCreadys' name and address. Two more names below theirs were crossed out as well. The next one on the list had a circle drawn around it. Beneath those were a couple of letters containing additional names and locations. Within the margins were dates extending back roughly a year or so. Thomas found he recognized none of them, which was a feat and of itself considering his extensive network of smugglers throughout the colonies.

Shoving it into Connor's face with smug aplomb, he watched with mild interest as her eyes widened at one of the names that shared the list with the McCreadys. "This…this is William de Saint-Prix," she cried. Well, for her, it was the equivalent of an exclamation. To anyone else, it sounded more akin to distant aggravation combined with a healthy dose of indifference.

"Wot the hell do that mean?" Thomas enquired.

"I know him," Connor swallowed.

"One of ya precious Brotherhood's?" he cleared his throat.

"This is highy useful information," she declared, completely ignoring his question and rapidly changing the subject. Squaring her shoulders, she handed him back the notes, adding, "You appear to have some use after all."

"A flippin' _'thank ya Tommy,'_ is too bloody much to ask for now?" he snit.

She didn't hear him, already out the front door and sneaking her way down the corridor.

Hauling ass after her, he intentionally made plenty of noise on his feet and whispered behind her, "Now can we go get the fuck out of here?"

"Of course," she distractedly said.

He was undeniably stunned when she slumped back against him. He remained stock still as she closed her eyes, seeming to gather her thoughts. But just as soon as it began, it was over. Rolling forward to the balls of her feet, she flicked out her left hidden blade. Nimbly spinning it about on its hinge to use as a dagger, she unsheathed her tomahawk at the same time. Neither action made a sound.

"Good 'en," he flashed a cocky smile, "Now, ya can go do your murderin' and whatever the hell else ya do when ya take over one of these outposts for the Continentals."

He had to admit that her bright grin at such a prospect made him a bit uneasy. Probably because her grisly business resulted in her looking the cheeriest he'd seen her in well, ever.

What a homicidal little fiend.

* * *

Christ on a cracker, her sheer brutality was a sight to behold. From his position along the ramparts above her, it dawned on Thomas that he'd never witnessed her in true one-on-one combat. Back at the convoy, he was distracted with keeping himself alive. In New York, his primary objective was escaping her pursuit when she fled the gallows. In prison, she wasn't particularly healthy and clearly operating out of desperation when she attacked him in his cell. But now? He had a superior view of Connor going to work on a half-dozen redcoats vainly making an effort to capture the person responsible for blowing up their power stores.

As soon as the explosion rocked the stronghold, the bells sent up the alarm. At first, he thought her absolutely daft in the head for not attempting any sort of escape. However, it simply allowed her ample time to prepare herself for the coming skirmish. And boy howdy, was it a_fucking _bloody one.

Savagely kicking the first soldier in the groin, she sent him doubling over. It allowed her to easily follow up with a swing of her tomahawk to the back of his neck. Sidestepping his falling corpse, she lashed out with her blade and caught the soldier standing dumbfounded behind him in the stomach. Slicing upwards with a flurry of thrusts left him essentially eviscerated and gurgling on his own blood as he died. Thinking her distracted, a third redcoat vainly tried grabbing her from behind. His mistake, for she reeled back an elbow into his ribs. As he cursed her, she twirled around and gouged the point of her tomahawk up into his chin while at the same time kicking out at his knee. Judging by the sickening crunch, she broke the bone. Ignoring his ragged screech of horror, she yanked out her weapon only to slit his throat with her left blade.

As he fell into the crimson tinted snow, a fourth redcoat tripped over his body. Landing with a heavy thud on his back allowed Connor to leap onto his chest. Pressing her knee into his sternum, she hacked him to death without a second thought. Back on her feet within a blink of an eye, she shook off a fifth soldier's punch to her side while ducking his cohort's bayonet to her chest. It seemed to trigger her rage, for she took on both of them at once.

Ducking under the first man's second swing at her, she dropped to a knee, spun about and sent her tomahawk into his stomach. Whipping him in front her, he caught a bullet to his chest intended for her and shot by the soldier who tried to initially bayonet her. Yanking her tomahawk out of the first lobsterback sent his blood spraying all over her coat. Popping back up to her feet, she stabbed out with her hidden blade. It finished off the second man with a knife through his eye. Her malicious snarl echoing in the frigid air, she thrust him off her blade.

The sixth soldier had the sense to flee and return with reinforcements as soon as the skirmish began. So as Connor recovered, she was abruptly faced with a line of redcoats loading their muskets and preparing to fire. Thomas swore he could hear her let out a demented cackle, but he couldn't be sure. About to shout a warning at the firing of line of redcoats, it was immediately apparent there was no need. Somehow hearing the sound of a redcoat attempting to outflank her from behind, Connor's hand snaked out and yanked him in front of her. It all happened in the few seconds it took for the redcoats to shoot.

Tough luck for the soldier, who was now turned into a dead, human shield. Callously shoving him away and using the remaining soldiers' panic at killing one of their own, she snatched up a spare musket and leapt into the fray. She finished them off in the matter of a few minutes. It mostly consisted of her being viciously pragmatic. Running through one man with a bayonet, at the same time, she pulled the trigger and shot through a second one behind him. Then, she utilized the musket stock as a club. Swinging it in wide but accurate arcs, she deliberately caused the remaining enemies to fire on each other in a chaotic attempt to shoot her. Anyone reckless enough to get within arm's length met the gruesome end of her hidden blade and tomahawk. Evidently, her favorite tools of death.

Upon completion of her macabre task, there were roughly fifteen or so dead bodies lying crumpled in a heap. About a third of them were ranking officers. The alarms bells mysteriously quieted, it proved eerily still.

"Connor?" Thomas muttered after a long while.

Spinning about on her heel, she instantly relaxed at seeing who addressed her. Letting her bow go slack, she returned her arrow to her quiver. "Why are you still about?" she asked, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Her coat splattered with blood, its crimson waves dripped down her face and neck. Pools of it gathered at her feet, stark and livid against the blinding white snow. Scattered around her, redcoats lay twisted at grotesque angles. Their necks snapped and slit, limbs bent back at odd angles, their eyes stared up at the sky, sightless and clear.

A vague memory flared to Thomas' mind. Primarily of his mother's tales of the old Gaelic gods and goddesses, spoken to him in the forbidden language of _na hÉireannaigh_. The deities the people of his homeland worshiped before the Christians came from over the sea, a thousand years ago. Of the _Morrígna_, the three witch sisters of war. Of _Nemain_, she who reveled in frenzied bloodlust of combat. Of _Macha_, the stern, unyielding queen of war and sovereignty. Of _Badb_, the shape shifting crow, she who foretold the omens of death in battle. Fairytales, that was all they were. The fantastical musings of a harried woman with too many mouths to feed and too little means to ensure their hands remained occupied long enough to keep the lot of them out of trouble.

Yet, as he watched Connor calmly clean her weapons of the men's blood and completely ignore the carnage, his senses twitched. The abrupt caw and squawking of a nest of ravens perched in the tree above them only added to it.

"Hickey?" she repeated a second time.

"Yeah, wot?" he sharply retorted, eyes snapping to her. At least she'd managed to wipe most of the blood from her face.

"You are wasting time-"

"I be waitin' for ya," he casually replied, forcing himself to sound utterly blasé.

"You should not have-" she challenged, only to pause and rephrase her words. "You should head back to our mounts. I will catch up with you shortly, for I must find the commander."

_And kill 'im_, Thomas mused. "Agreed," he shrugged. Heading out, he missed Connor's puzzled expression at his silence. No matter, she had other things to attend to. Namely, ridding the rest of the stronghold of any remaining redcoats.

* * *

There were on the road for roughly a day or so before Thomas broached the subject.

"So uh, how exactly do ya be gettin' word to the Continentals that the fort now be theirs now?" he spurred his horse a bit to catch up with her.

"After everyone is eliminated, I always search the prison first. As per usual, there were roughly twenty or so Patriot prisoners of war," she steadily said. "They are always all too pleased to ride out on freshly acquired, British horses to let the nearest Continental troops know that they may occupy the citadel."

"That be makin' sense. Anyway, sweetheart," Hickey called out before taking a long gulp from his flask. How he managed to do so without looking at the road where his mount was trotting admittedly baffled her. "It be but only a day's trek or so from a tavern where we can go fillin' up our supplies. Lucky for ya, it also be the same place that Eleanor usually be stoppin' at 'afore she heads to the cities for her missions."

"How exactly are you aware of all this?" Connor asked with dubious inquiry.

"'Cause me contacts be leavin' her and others of our lot the necessary supplies. Out 'ere in the wild, that tavern be a safe 'lil stopover. And _I," _he waved at himself with a flourish, "Just happen to be knowin' the barkeep on a personal basis. I say we try our luck their first 'afore we head to Boston."

Shaking her head is disagreement, Connor shot him a pointed look as she lightly reined in her grey mare. "So you," she accusingly pointed at him, "Expect _me_ to wander into a tavern full of Templar agents. Not only that, but also to stay my blade and exit it completely unscathed?"

"Ya acquitted yerself pretty fuckin' well back at the fort," Hickey jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"They were not my forsworn enemies, out for my life no matter the cost," she retorted.

"I got yer back, hon-"

"A likely story, considering the tavern is most certainly _not_ neutral territory."

"It ain't like no one be aware of ya affiliations on sight," he shrugged. "Hell, I didn't give a shit about ya until 'bout five months ago, back in New York. So quit bein' so bloody paranoid, love."

"This had better not be a trap," she warned, expression harsh and drawn against the desolate tundra they rode through. Lifting her chin for emphasis, she forcefully added, "For I am sure there is no need for me to explicitly relay what shall happen to you should such come to pass."

"Got ya loud 'n clear, dearie," he smirked before taking another swig from his flask.

Connor found herself without much of anything else in the way of options. For now, all she could do was trust a Templar to lead her on the path to warning William de Saint-Prix that his life was in imminent danger.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**...the forbidden language of **_**na hÉireannaigh**_ - _na hÉireannaigh_ translates to "the Irish people" in Irish Gaelic. Despite his Cockney accent, Thomas Hickey is listed as originally from Ireland. So I assume he would be familiar with his native language, as well as old tales of ancient Irish/Celtic gods.

While use of Gaelic wasn't explicitly forbidden in Ireland, the Tudor Conquest of the country beginning with Henry VIII in the 16th century started the decline of the language. Officials from England generally suppressed its use and considered it a threat. The Great Famine of Ireland from 1845–1852 resulted in further decline, mostly due to Ireland's significant decrease in population. During this time period, Ireland lost 20–25% of its people, due to a combination of starvation and immigration. Only recently has there been a resurgence of Irish Gaelic.


End file.
